When Forgiveness Is Exhausting

When Forgiveness Is Exhausting

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Several years ago, a leader in my community called me into her office, positioned herself across from me, and began an interrogation. Someone had led her to misinterpret something I’d said, and she conjured up a crazy story casting me as the villain. This leader then used concocted evidence to condemn me and was convinced I should be heavily penalized. To say I was blindsided and stunned by her false accusations would be an understatement. I greatly admired and respected this woman, had often spoken highly of her, and had even tried to emulate her. Therefore, I was brokenhearted— paralyzed—by the perceived joy she took in tormenting me from her position of power.

As she spewed threats, I cried excessively. Drained, deeply wounded, and bewildered, I dragged myself home to my one-bedroom apartment. Alone and sulking, I began sobbing out a prayer—a prayer for REVENGE! I cried out for my gracious, kind, and merciful God to avenge me. I actually prayed, “God, how are You going to get back at her for what she did to me?” Can you believe that? You see, my struggle to forgive those who intentionally harm me is real! But there in my bedroom, in the midst of my excruciating, suffocating pain, where murderous thoughts tasted like sweet justice amid bitter tears, where the hurt accessed the massive, ugly monster parts of my humanity, God’s presence gently interrupted.

Sweetly, calmly, and omnipotently, God spoke: “You can forgive her.”

I wish I could tell you that I instantly expressed gratitude to God and my desire for retaliation was resolved. Nope! Instead, I was offended that God would speak of forgiveness while I was in so much pain. By my account, the woman who had wronged me needed to suffer. I wanted her to be fired, not forgiven.

Though injured and now insulted, I somehow managed to piece together a few life-giving words and fashion a prayer for my offender that more closely reflected the character of God. I asked God to bless her and to deliver her from the painful circumstances that had prompted her to falsely accuse and hurt me. But forgiving her would be an entirely different endeavor that seemed impossible at the time.

The wound seemed too massive to ever heal. The pain felt embedded in my psyche. Anger was infused into every part of my soul. I could not will myself to forgive her. I did not want to forgive her. Although I knew forgiveness was in my best interests, my pain made me reason that she did not deserve my forgiveness. I wanted to be free of the overwhelming resentment I felt toward her. But again, was it even possible to recover from this kind of relational destruction, to break free from the bondage of bitterness that entangled my soul? It sure didn’t feel like it.

Come Sit with Me and Learn Together

My road to liberation would be lengthy, arduous, and tumultuous.

I tried all the things that have been prescribed to foster forgiveness. I prayed blessings for her. I read all the Scripture passages about how we’ve been forgiven so we should now forgive. I listened to great messages that outlined formulas for forgiveness. I journaled to get my pain on paper and out of my head. I considered her pain and tried to empathize with her so as not to take her attack personally, because “hurt people hurt people.” I did it all, yet relief did not come.

The path to forgiveness was exhausting. I felt like I was wrestling a mammoth, prehistoric, octopus-like creature. I was overwhelmed by the enormity of its grabby tentacles that squeezed and sucked the life out of me. It was a losing battle. The more effort I put toward forgiving, the more I felt the sting of unforgiveness. And failure to conquer the unforgiveness monster only compounded my unforgiveness with shame. Perhaps you have heard this familiar adage by Marianne Williamson: “Unforgiveness is like drinking poison yourself and waiting for the other person to die.” Well, drinking the poison seemed easier than exerting the strength to forgive. And because the offense was so painful, the poison of unforgiveness did not even taste toxic.

But inside my poisoned heart, I was terrified that unforgiveness would be the death of me, that somehow I’d be discounted in God’s eyes. It didn’t seem fair or logical that I had been burdened with the responsibility of forgiveness. But what felt like a burden was actually an invitation to know God’s love in the form of patience, compassion, commitment, and consistency.

Cultivating patience, compassion, commitment, and consistency is not prioritized or primarily sought after in our culture of instant gratification. We don’t want to be patient. We don’t want to persevere in navigating interactions with those who wound us. I’m sure you know what I mean. When your soul has been deeply injured, you want immediate relief from the pain. You don’t want to have to figure out what to say the next time you are in the room with that longtime, trusted friend who betrayed you. You don’t want to have to continue working under the revered leader who spiritually abused you. You just want to detach from the source of your pain. The desire to flee is understandable because it is a natural psychological response of protection. Trust me, I’ve been there. But disengaging from the pain is not the only thing necessary for our healing.

When avoidance isn’t possible and relief from your pain isn’t immediate, remember that you have been graced with time.

Over time—and I mean many, many years—the unforgiveness monster loosened its chokehold on me. Little by little its tentacles released their grip, or maybe I grew stronger in my ability to resist. Perhaps both. Either way, the change was so subtle, so gradual, I almost didn’t feel it until I realized I was actually free.

I realized that I needed time more than I needed to implement a forgiveness formula. God met me in my stifled unforgiveness and gifted me with unhurried space to process. God stayed with me, and together we cultivated seeds of forgiveness that needed time to take root and blossom.

Forgiveness did not come through an apology. Forgiveness was not ushered in by a reconciled relationship. I’m sure that my offender still thinks her attack on me was justified. But in that place where the hurt stuck to me and I staved off forgiveness, God met me, stayed with me, and sustained me.

Romans 5:3–4 says, “We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation” (NLT). We live in an imperfect world where it’s inevitable that we will get hurt. Like you, I certainly do not welcome the pain. But I know that even though I am going to encounter people who, whether intentionally or unintentionally, will hurt me, I can trust God with my heart. Our patient, compassionate, committed, consistent God will hold my assaulted and bruised heart in His hands and nurture me until I feel whole again.

You can trust Him with your heart too.

Questions to Sit With

Ask Yourself
1. What wounds from my past am I allowing to still fester in my heart?
2. Who do I need to forgive today?
3. How has God met me on my long road of pain and brokenness?

Ask God
1. How do You see the person who wronged me?
2. What do You want to teach me or show me through my journey to forgive?
3. Show me my unattended wounds that need time with You.

By Lucretia Berry, adapted from her chapter in (in)courage’s book, Come Sit with Me: How to Delight in Differences, Love through Disagreements, and Live with Discomfort. Get this powerful resource to go through on your own, with a friend, or small group.

 

Oh, the People You’ll Meet

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There’s nothing that can bring a spring to my step like yard sale season. Knowing that Saturday mornings are host to my own personal beauty-chasing is all I need to stumble out of my early morning slumber.

We can tell a lot about someone from the stuff they’re selling. While I love the thrill of the hunt, I’m even more interested in understanding a person’s stories. With an open invite to someone’s garage or front lawn, I discover tables that hold scattered memories. Because hosts aren’t scrambling away from social interaction like they might on an ordinary day, I’ve shared rare moments with dozens of strangers in the middle of their driveway.

When we offer a genuine smile, ask caring questions, and extend welcome and kindness, it’s counter-cultural in this society. The recipient may be a stranger to us, but not to God.

In visiting yard sales, I’ve met a young mom teary eyed about her baby heading to kindergarten, but ready to mark the moment by selling her crib, a widow parting with her husband’s camping gear, and an empty nester whose identity was wrapped up in years of parenting but is now ready to create a guest room.

I’ve pondered why they’ve felt freedom to share pieces of their heart during a seemingly quick, ordinary interaction with a stranger. I think it’s because it’s rare to find somone eager to listen; it’s rare to feel heard and acklowledged.

In studying the life of Christ and His everyday interactions, I’ve witnessed His profound storytelling through parables that lead us to the truth of salvation and revelation of His kingdom. But I’ve also watched His mastery at making short, significant conversations matter.

Did you know that the average length of Jesus’ conversations as recorded in the Gospels was only 42 seconds long? If you’ve ever felt insecure about having spiritual conversations, let Jesus’s brevity be an encouragement. When we fear our inadequacy in word choice or dread long conversations, model after Jesus. He loved short, intentional interactions. Nothing too fancy for Him.

If we don’t overthink, over analyze, and overcomplicate spiritual conversations, our natural, everyday exchanges can give way to the supernatural. When we choose an open-handed, no-fuss approach, a non-believer can freely explore their spiritual curiosity with us.

I once heard, “We must learn to find the back door to people’s hearts because the front door is heavily guarded.”

In today’s combative culture, most people default to a defensive, “Us vs. Them” stance — spend five minutes on social media, and you’ll see it. Christians from all sides have earned their share of disagreeable labels.

I stand firmly on biblical orthodoxy, rooted in the truth that we are all sinners and that Jesus Christ is the only way to heaven. But I also recognize that this statement can confuse or offend some, often because of their past experiences. That’s why, while I never retreat from Gospel-centered truth, my goal is to create a space where real conversations can unfold naturally.

Pointing people to Christ’s life-changing work on the cross is my deepest desire, but not with an agenda. I simply want to see people — truly see them — right where they are. So I ask myself, What’s their back door?

Colossians 4:5-6 says, “Use your heads as you live and work among outsiders. Don’t miss a trick. Make the most of every opportunity. Be gracious in your speech. The goal is to bring out the best in others in a conversation, not put them down, not cut them out” (The Message).

Yard sales are often access to someone’s “back door”. This Saturday was no different. As I trudged up the driveway, a booming voice confessed, “I’m making deals. I have too much stuff.” I empathized and admitted, “Don’t remind me. I shouldn’t be buying yours when I have plenty of my own to get rid of. Why do we do this to ourselves?” We swapped a few stories and chuckled over our shared struggle.

I couldn’t help but notice his stunning spring flowers and commended him on his hard work. He offered a few gardening tips while we lamented about the deluge of rain.

“This conversation reminds me about something I read in the Bible,” I told my new friend. “God gives us kindness with the rain so we can now enjoy your beautiful flowers. And don’t get me started on weeds. I’m the worst about getting them out of my garden and my life,” I added, while he shared in my chuckle.

“I haven’t thought about weeds like that before,” the man replied. His wife walked over and I assured her we were busy solving the world’s problem. “It started with all our stuff, merged into gardening, and now onto life.”

Since I’d come with kindness and no agenda, divine dialogue flowed freely while we chatted more about life’s weeds.

I don’t have the gift of evangelism. I never spouted out the “4 spiritual laws,” but I was an active listener. I noticed interests, lamented in shared struggles, asked questions about family (via items I saw on their tables), and encouraged them. Intentional conversations like this seem awkward at first, but they soon become part of our muscle memory. As we see the world through Jesus’s lens, we’re moved to act in obedience and intentionality.

I left the sale not only as the proud owner of a gentleman’s favorite, albeit a bit rusty, gardening tool, but with a special connection with strangers. They were left with a very unique garage sale conversation to ponder and an invitation for coffee.

Oh, the people we meet and the connections that abound when we shine a spotlight on the goodness of God. I can’t get over it.

Has He changed your life? Who might you tell?

 

Listen to Jen’s devotion here or on your fave podcast app!

When You Can’t Even Explain How Hard Life Is

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“Okay, that’s all. I hope you’re good. Heh . . . that’s all . . .”

A few weeks ago, my best friend left me a long, rambly message about the latest struggles she was facing. To be clear, I always want long, rambly messages from her, just as I always want to hear about her struggles. I tell you merely to set the scene.

After explaining the difficult things that had been going on in her world, her voice faded out for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Okay, that’s all. I hope you’re good.” Before she stopped recording, though, she chuckled and muttered, “Heh . . . that’s all . . .”

As I sat in silence after listening to that message, I got a case of the giggles. That’s all, she said. As if any given day — in our current, complicated lives — does not contain multitudes. The thought is laughable!

Like you, she and I are constantly facing a multitude of situations, challenges, emotions, ways our bodies are betraying us or our people are frustrating us. In no way can any message summarizing any of it be adequately described as “that’s all.”

One of my favorite trendy phrases found in social media posts, podcast episodes, and even books is when a person writes or says, “gestures wildly” after saying, “all this” or “all the things.” It seems that, collectively, we have lost the ability to put into actual, descriptive words how incredibly overwhelmed we are with the nonstop tsunami of life.

While I do think the increasingly fast pace and full calendar most of us live with (as well as, say it with me, “these unprecedented times” that apparently are just the norm now) bear much of the blame for our overwhelm, I think we’ve also allowed ourselves to take on the burden of shame for simply existing in this weird season.

Motivated by the kindest intentions (or at least that’s what I’m choosing to believe), those speaking to women today frequently say things like, “You’re taking on too much. You’re doing too much. You’re expecting too much of yourself.” They urge us to minimize, to streamline, to delegate – so we can breathe and heal and perhaps even grow.

These are wonderful sentiments. And if that’s the word you need today, please take it in and go forth. We all go through times where we absolutely need to prune everything but the most important and take life one minute at a time.

But if you are in a stage where you have accumulated a list of responsibilities that is both unavoidable and more than any one person can handle, you don’t have to feel bad about that.

If your mind races with a to-do list that can never be done but must be done, creating a constant undercurrent of panic . . .

If your heart pounds when you remember that you are the last defense, the only emergency contact, the one holding all the details and logistics that must not be forgotten or overlooked . . .

If you wish for a backup or a substitute or an assistant, but simply do not have anyone . . .

If you truly cannot let any of the balls you’re juggling drop right now because every one of them is mandatory…

I hear you. I see you. I am with you. I am you!

More importantly, though, Jesus is with us. He’s with us, He understands us, and He does not want us to feel ashamed by the staggering weight of our burdens.

No, He is our Friend who understands truly what it feels like to carry the entire world on your shoulders. He is also our Example — the One who shows us that taking a nap or stopping for a snack won’t, in fact, topple that world right off its axis. And, here’s the best part of all: He is our Hero, our Savior, extending His hand and saying, “Give it to me. You’re not alone anymore.”

Jesus is not discounting the importance or weight of what we are holding. He’s not wagging His finger or shaking His head at the way we’ve taken on too much or refused help in the past. He’s not offering us empty platitudes, advising us to just chill out and relax.

Jesus is offering to give us the tools to handle whatever life is piling on top of us. He’s offering to give us – the weary, the burned out, the ones keeping the lights on and the wheels turning – the relief we so desperately need.

He is offering us rest. Not just a break from the responsibilities, but freedom from the regret and the resentment and the fear that we are the only ones capable or available, that this season of overwhelm will never end, that we are so dang tired.

If summing up a report of your day or week with the words “that’s all” would make you laugh right now, you are not alone. We are in this together – you, me, my friend, and Jesus.

I pray that brings you a deep breath (in and out) of comfort and relief. I pray that brings you the kind of peace that allows your shoulders and your jaw and your mind stuck in overdrive to finally relax.

And I pray we can receive the rest the Lord wants to give us as we keep company with Him.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
Matthew 11:28-30 MSG

Is It Worth the Wait?

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As a Gen Xer, I remember ours being the first house on our block to get a microwave. My dad lobbied hard for this particular purchase, the only contribution he made to cooking in my parents’ house in nearly fifty years.

I remember him touting the efficiency of this new technology, but my mom, who not only did all the cooking but also worked full time, was disappointed that this giant box caused the food to taste weirdly rubbery. It wasn’t the miracle she was promised. Yes, it cooked faster — but at what cost?

It’s easy to want to trade in the slow simmer of a homemade soup for a microwave lunch or the sacred conversation for a quick text. It’s easy to choose the suburban shortcut instead of the country road. While efficiency has its place, sometimes we miss the deeper joys — like savoring a gorgeous view or a meaningful moment — when we rush ahead.

I was reminded of this recently when we needed a county inspection for some work on our remote property. We live so far out that it takes more than an hour of driving on winding roads through the mountains to get here, something that catches many people by surprise.

Earlier this week, Josh came by to fix work that had previously failed county inspection. From the moment he got out of his truck, he was agitated. “You really live in the middle of absolute nowhere, don’t you?” he said. “I wish you would have told our dispatcher how far out you lived. This is a waste of a day.”

My heart sank. I felt guilty, ashamed — even responsible for his frustration — like I should apologize for where I live, even though their company had been out several times and knew where we lived.

But then Ron, the county inspector, came by to sign off on Josh’s work. He had to make the same drive twice in less than a week — once to fail the work and now to check it again. I immediately apologized. “I’m so sorry you had to come out a second time. I know it’s a long drive.”

Ron’s face broke into a wide grin. “Are you kidding? This is a gorgeous drive. The winding roads, the trees, the mountain views … this is the most beautiful route I get to take. I don’t mind coming out here at all.”

Two men, same road — yet their experiences couldn’t have been more different. Josh looked at the drive as a burden, an inconvenience. Ron saw the exact same trip as an opportunity, a privilege.

As I reflected on their opposite responses, I was struck by how easily we can approach our daily realities in a Josh-like way: focusing on what we “have to do,” or how inconvenienced we are and getting mad when we’re unable to do everything with expediency. But if we switch our thinking — like Ron — something as ordinary as a drive can become a chance to appreciate God’s creation, a moment to linger, to breathe, to see beauty in places others dismiss.

This idea of perspective applies to so many aspects of life — especially when it comes to how we feed ourselves, physically and spiritually. There are days when grabbing a granola bar is the only option; we’re in a hurry, and we just need the fuel. But how often are we forfeiting the deeper nourishment of a slow-cooked meal like soup for the quick fix of whatever is fast and convenient?

Soup requires time and patience. It demands that you simmer the ingredients, allowing the flavors to deepen and the aroma to fill the house. It asks you to linger in the process, trust the heat, and watch as something simple transforms into something comforting and worth the wait. Anticipation grows all day long, and then finally, you feel the gratitude when it is time to eat.

The apostle Paul writes in Philippians 4:11–12 (NIV), “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances… I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation.” This contentment is less about our circumstances — where we live, what annoyances we face — and more about our posture of heart.

What if we treated life more like a simmering pot of soup — savoring and lingering — rather than forcing it into a granola-bar schedule? What if we chose to see the path in front of us, whatever it may be, as an invitation to linger longer with God, notice His handiwork, and trust He is forming something good within us?

You might be facing frustrating tasks or dealing with people who see the “drive” as a burden. But you have the opportunity to view your circumstances through a lens of gratitude and contentment. You can choose the slow-cooked richness of joy and perseverance over the instant gratification of complaint. Like Ron, we can see the beauty in the winding roads.

Inspired to cook a few new soup recipes? Order Kathi’s cookbook, Sabbath Soup: Weekly Menus and Rhythms to Make Space for a Day of Rest.

God Is Inviting You to Give Your Weakness Over to Him

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“We’ve been invited to a birthday party,” said my husband during our usual midday phone call. “It’s at 7 o’clock at the Mexican restaurant.”

My heart sank. Why a restaurant? I thought. I can’t handle restaurants. My husband continued, “They said we could ride with them. I think I want to go.”

I’m not sure if it was the idea of getting out of the house that enticed him or if he was simply hungry for Mexican food, but I could hear the eagerness in his voice. Finally, he asked, “Do you want to go?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. It was all I could offer up in response.

What was I going to do? I didn’t want to disappoint my husband and I didn’t want to disappoint our friends, especially since we’ve “regretfully declined” so many of their previous invitations, for one reason or another. But, just as I began to entertain the idea of accepting the invitation, I sensed fear, anxiety, and insecurity begin to rise up within me.

  • Fear questioned me — What if you can’t get in and out of their car? 
  • Anxiety taunted — Someone will have to help you stand up and that will be embarrassing for both you and your husband.
  • Insecurity chimed in — Do you really want all those people watching you struggle with your cane as you walk through the restaurant?

Eventually, I told my husband to accept the invitation and attend the party himself. He declined it, however. Said he didn’t want to go without me. Though I appreciated his concern for me, this left me feeling guilty for, once again, succumbing to my fears and missing out on another opportunity to enjoy and live life.

This tends to be my mode of operation these days. When opportunities arise, I automatically withdraw. I decline invitations. I avoid public places. I shy away from people and I hide out at home where I feel safe and secure.

Many would say that I have good reason to be so withdrawn. After all, living with a muscle disease isn’t easy.

All my life, I’ve had to deal with the negative attention and ridicule that comes with having a physical disability and being different. I’ve had to come to grips with my physical limitations with the day-to-day activities of life, like climbing stairs, standing from a seated position, and simply walking across a room. I’ve had to accept the fact that some people don’t want me in their lives because of the uncomfortableness caused by my need for extra attention and assistance.

One would think, by now, I’d have it all figured out — that I’d know how to navigate the sea of negativity that surrounds the life of the physically disabled. One would think I’ve come to a place of not worrying about people staring or whispering behind my back. But as I grow older, and as my disease progresses with new challenges, I’m finding that my old companions — Fear, Anxiety, and Insecurity — have a stronger grip on my life than ever before.

Lying in bed the night of declining my friend’s birthday invitation, I became overwhelmed with feelings of hopelessness. I cried as I thought of my weakening body, my growing dependence on others, and my losing battle with fear and anxiety.

“I’m miserable, God!” I cried. “Is this what the rest of my life is going to be?”

In the midst of my sorrow, I heard God whisper, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

The world may laugh when I need assistance standing up from a seated position. The world may point when I struggle to climb a staircase. The world may stare and whisper behind my back when I clumsily walk through the room with my cane. But, in all of my weakness, God sees a vessel for His power and grace.

Yes . . . God’s power is made perfect in my weakness.

I know I will give in to my negative emotions, again. It’s inevitable. Still, I don’t have to give those negative emotions control. I don’t have to shy away from living. I don’t have to worry if I will be mocked by the world. I am a child of God and He does not intend for me to live a miserable life. God wants me to give my weaknesses to Him and allow Him to use them for His glory.

He wants that for you, too. We all have something that causes insecurity in our lives, something that makes us feel small or insignificant or even weak. But God has invited all of us to give those weaknesses over to Him — to live in His sufficient grace and to let His power be perfected in and through our lives.

And, friends? That’s one invitation I definitely don’t want to decline.

Listen to K.J.’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

You and I Were Created for Communal Flourishing

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I remember how the fans whirred as the afternoon heat picked up that day. January is dry season in Cambodia, and every day I was there, the temperatures rose from a comfortable, cool, seventies, to a dry nineties by the afternoon. I resisted the urge to fan myself that day, and settled into the feel of heat rising under my skin.

I was sitting on a plastic chair, in a room above a restaurant called Green Mango Café, in Battambang City, watching a group of young Cambodian women graduate from culinary school. For the 15 months prior, these women from rural villages throughout the Battambang province had been part of the Center for Global Impact’s Culinary Training Center. Not only were these women trained as chefs and businesswomen in the café and restaurant below, they also took general education and spiritual formation classes. I also witnessed evidence of the galvanizing gift of community and confidence that showed with their lifted chins and wide smiles — parts of the program that aren’t as easy to list on paper but just as powerful as any classroom training.

These young women are daughters and sisters — like you and me, like our daughters or sisters — and each of them is worthy of anything you and I or our own daughters or sisters or mothers are worthy of. However these young women in particular come from an area where girls and women are vulnerable to human trafficking in ways many of us haven’t experienced.

Center for Global Impact’s mission is to bring the gospel of Jesus to those in the grip of poverty and bondage by practically providing pathways out of poverty. This is done through education, life skills, spiritual formation, and vocational training. Of course, I supported this work before I traveled to Cambodia, but after bearing witness to the very real lives this work has impacted over the last 15+ years, I now find my heart irrevocably tied to the women I met and this land of limes and tuk-tuks, and a deep warmth and hospitality I’ve rarely experienced in other places.

On the day before the graduation, I joined the American and Cambodian CGI staff team in visiting some of the students’ homes. From remote dirt-floor village homes surrounded by palm trees to a rented room nestled down a narrow alleyway behind urban businesses, I was overcome with how the women I encountered had such similar hopes and dreams as mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends as myself and the women I know and love in my regular life. And I was struck with the reality of how extreme poverty and the brutality of history can keep anyone barred from these same hopes and dreams.

I am not Cambodian, but I am the daughter of a Korean immigrant mother, who lived in the aftermath of colonization and war, and grew up in extreme poverty. I wrote about her story in my memoir, Tell Me the Dream Again. My mom grew up without food and then food became how she colored my own upbringing with love. It’s not lost on me that God would use what was so painful and the place of so much lack in her younger life to later feed and nourish my entire life.

I saw my mother’s face in the faces of the young women who graduated that day in Battambang. I imagined her having had the same opportunities these women did – training, community, education, spiritual formation, love, dignity, and care.

A little over ten years before I was born, our nation secretly carpet-bombed Cambodia. What was said to be an effort to contain Communism, and kept secret until the year 2000, is what led to anywhere from twenty-four thousand to a million Cambodian deaths, according to records. Entire villages, families, and neighborhoods were wiped out. Aside from the death of civilians in a neutral country, the attack also created fear, extreme vulnerability, and distrust. Many historians believe this is exactly what led Cambodians into the arms of the Khmer Rouge and eventually what led to the Cambodian genocide.

While we can’t go back and change the past, we can remember, learn from it, and work towards repair and a better tomorrow. There is so much going on in the world today, and much of it leads me to want to despair and cry out to Jesus, “How do I find you here?”

But what if there’s no better moment and place than the one we are in, to reach out and remember how connected we were created to be: to one another and Jesus? What if Jesus is right here, next door, and thousands of miles away? Your neighbor’s flourishing next door and in another culture means your flourishing. And your flourishing, wherever you are, is tied to hers. What if our communal flourishing is the flourishing of Christ?

I held back a waterfall of ugly tears as I saw my young mom in each woman standing tall with a chef hat, a bouquet of flowers, chef tools, and a deep sense of pride and accomplishment that day. Their flourishing meant my own. Their hope for the future gave me hope as I imagined my kids’ futures thousands of miles away from that graduation.

Perhaps God’s good work through us exists outside of time. If so, whatever I can do to support these women is for each of these women and the communities they are connected to, and it’s also for my young mom of yesterday, for me and my family today, and for everyone I’m connected to — which is also you, dear reader.

Whose flourishing and need can you offer your hands and hope to right now?

To learn more about the work of Center for Global Impact and how you can be involved, head here.

Listen to Tasha’s devotion here or stream the (in)courage podcast!

Embracing Your Season

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“Blessed is the one . . .
whose delight is in the law of the Lord,
and who meditates on his law day and night.
That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
whatever they do prospers.”
Psalm 1:1–3 NIV

Life begins and ends, and in the middle is the dash you find on a tombstone. The middle is made up of hills and valleys, victories and losses, seasons of dreaming and seasons of accomplishing.

And that’s where I often find myself — smack dab in the middle.

There are dreams and visions I have for my life that have yet to be achieved. I’m at a day job I don’t want to be at forever. I want to get married one day. I would like to have more resources to bless others with. And all of it is okay. Now is not forever.

I used to feel guilty about wanting more out of my life. I thought to want more was to be ungrateful for what I had or for the season I was in, but I realize now that I can want more and be grateful for today at the same time.

In Psalm 1, the psalmist says that the blessed person delights in God’s Word day in and day out. They meditate on it, and that allows them to be rooted in Him and yield forth fruit in season. Planting and harvesting is a process that only happens over time. When Jesus is who we seek, we will find Him in every season.

The best part about seasons is that they don’t last. If you’re patient and fully present in the season you’re in, there’s a new one right around the corner. And God is always doing a new thing.

So I’ve learned that being in the middle is okay. God is here with me and you, ready to fill us with peace in the now and hope for the not yet. He will lead us through it.

PRAYER

Lord, help me hang on during this middle season. Help me to seek Your face during this time when I long for more yet don’t want to go back to what was. Give me patience to be fully present right where I am and to see the new things You are doing. Amen.

By Karina Allen as published in Take Heart: 100 Devotions to Seeing God When Life’s Not Okay

Take Heart

 

God Is Already Working In Ways You’ve Yet to Imagine

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The only thing more intense than my cries that afternoon were my prayers.

I was laying on my bed, crying out to God, when I abruptly stopped and realized that what I truly wanted could literally never come to pass. I was less than one week postpartum with our first child, a stillborn son. I was home and he was not. What I wanted was for him to be out of the grave — in my womb or in my arms . . . it didn’t matter.

The visceral emptiness I felt sunk deep into my heart. Then came the intruding thought: “If I can’t have what I really want, what am I even praying for?”

This spiritual and emotional precipice was terrifying. Did I really believe Jesus was enough, even if I couldn’t have what I wanted? I had been taught so many ways to pray over the years, including prayers of letting go. You know? Those prayers of releasing what I hoped could be. However, those “letting go” prayers still held within them the hope that God would give back to me whatever I had entrusted to Him.

This could not be the case with our son, however. Because, regardless of what well-intentioned folks would say, this was not a scenario in which God could give back to me that which I had seemingly released. Our son was gone, and I didn’t want to simply “have other kids” as others had suggested. People don’t replace people. I wanted him back; I wanted my son back.

My wholehearted answer to the question I asked myself was, “I don’t know.” I was no longer sure that Jesus was enough, though I was certain I didn’t want Him to be enough. At that moment, having my son back was the only thing that would be enough.

Admitting this felt like flinging myself over the precipice in a reckless and irreparable way, so I prayed something else instead. My new prayer sounded more like, “God, I really want what I can’t have — and I can’t even begin to imagine what You can do with this prayer, but I am open to You doing something I don’t have the imagination or emotional wherewithal to even consider at the moment. That’s all I’ve got. Amen.”

Then I fell asleep and escaped my little world for an hour or so.

Unsurprisingly, I awoke to the same reality — the same bed, the same feelings, and without my son. Even still, I had made it through that utterly terrifying wave of grief. I also made it through what felt like the lowest faith prayer I had ever spoken. That was nearly a decade and a half ago — and we are now three kids deep. The answer to my prayer, however, didn’t come in the form of my three children, though they are a joy and bring great life to our home. The answer, in fact, is ever unfurling.

Though that particular precipice was a one-time cliff, the experience of looking into an abyss with only a darkened imagination is not. Eight years ago, my husband left his Christian faith of thirty years. The faith that held us when we buried our son and the same faith our other three children have been symbolically buried and risen into through the waters of baptism. The faith that once held us both but now only holds me. . .

The truth is, we all face our particular precipices — looking into a situation that either feels impossible or literally is impossible. Friend, I know this place all too well. So, in what manner of faith do we approach this kind of abyss? I would offer you Ephesians 3:20 (NIV), where the apostle Paul is writing to his friends in the faith, and he tells them, “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine.” Full stop, right there — this verse lights up the darkness in my thoughts and prayers.

The unfurling of God’s work in our lives doesn’t come from our own imagination. It doesn’t come from what we can see or even ask for. God’s work doesn’t come from a plan we can concoct and pray for. We don’t have to have much of anything, really. We come, simply with a willingness to be shown something outside of what we could literally “ask or imagine.”

This abyss, this precipice you face may be awful. There is no escaping that reality. Your lack of faith may frighten you, as you may feel you need a resurrection so far beyond this death you are experiencing that you struggle to even know what to pray. This is the place Jesus knows. He knows how to let go into the Father’s hands. The only path is to believe, even if ever so slightly, there is a life beyond your imagination, a world where God himself establishes you in His love.

Indeed, God will “work His power” in you in ways so big you have yet to consider asking. This, this is truly good news.

Now, to Him who is able . . . amen.

Trees Flourish in Community, and So Do We

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We recently had cousins visit us in Central California from the East Coast. We decided to take them for a day trip to one of our favorite spots — Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. They call this intersection of two national parks the “land of the giants,” characterized by magnificent mountains, frolicking foothills, expansive canyons, caves and caverns, and the world’s largest trees.

I love taking visitors to see the sequoia groves because these trees always preach a sermon about community and resilience.

The scent in the air always serves as the first signal we have arrived in the forest sanctuary. Despite the chill outside, I rolled down the window so we could drink in the delicious aroma. A trove of tree trunks rose up around us forming a stately corridor. As we drove along the undulating highway into the park, we headed for Grant Grove where a large cluster of sequoia trees cover 90-some acres of mixed-conifer forest. Giant sequoias only grow between 4,000 and 8,000 feet elevation in the western Sierra Nevada mountain range of California. 

We pulled into the parking lot and began to stroll around the loop of the Grant Tree Trail. The sequoias were easy to spot among the other foliage. These massive trees with their ruddy trunks are like arrows pointing toward heaven. 

Giant sequoias are survivors. They weather harsh winters and steamy summers, and can even withstand fires. Their reddish bark, which can grow up to three feet thick, helps to protect them from fire damage. 

As we made our way toward the main attraction of the trail, the General Grant tree, we couldn’t help but notice the giant burn scar on her trunk on one side. Some fierce fires can still penetrate the bark. The General Grant tree has the largest diameter of any tree — a whopping 40.3 feet across — and she’s still standing, despite evidence of enduring fires. 

The General Grant tree provides a visual example of what the prophet Isaiah describes when he talks about God’s redeeming power and presence through life’s fires:

“When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.”
(Isaiah 43:2 NIV)

As I gazed at the tree’s massive trunk, I wondered about how she survived such a destructive fire and still remains grounded today.

The secret to survival lies below the surface. The sequoia root system makes them unique. They don’t have a main taproot like other trees. Instead, these giants only root to 12 to 14 feet deep even at maturity. Their root system is relatively shallow, considering many trees stand at 300 feet tall and weigh nearly 2 million pounds. Their roots are widespread, extending up to an acre around them.

Years ago, I watched a TED talk by scientist Suzanne Simard who explained that trees connect and talk to each other through their roots and fungal threads that travel underground. Her research revealed that trees care for each other by exchanging carbon, sharing vital nutrients, and delivering water. They work in community to overcome challenges. I like to imagine the complex network of roots like the trees holding hands underground.

Apparently, there are mother trees, which are the oldest trees in a grove. Through back-and-forth communication, they share about dangerous situations, help prepare for inclement weather, and signal the presence of harmful insects. I learned when mother trees are dying, they send messages through their roots to other trees and even share their last nutrients with young seedlings.

The trees with intertwining roots provide a beautiful inspiration to us all about what flourishing together really looks like. God designed the trees, like us, to communicate, nurture, and encourage each other. We are invited to care for each other in times of need and grief. We are called to invest in the next generation. 

In his book, The Hidden Life of Trees, Peter Wohlleben writes, “A tree is not a forest. On its own a tree cannot establish consistent local climate. It is at the mercy of wind and weather. But together, many trees create an ecosystem…”

Resilience grows in community. The trees need each other, and so do we. Despite our differences or the distance between us, we are all interdependent. 

Isaiah later provides a vision of what it looks like for all Creation to live in harmony and praise God together:

“You will live in joy and peace.
    The mountains and hills will burst into song,
    and the trees of the field will clap their hands!
Where once there were thorns, cypress trees will grow.
    Where nettles grew, myrtles will sprout up.
These events will bring great honor to the Lord’s name;
    they will be an everlasting sign of his power and love.”
(Isaiah 55:12-13 NLT)

Friend, these days may feel heavy and hard. Storms rage, fires burn, and we must face life’s challenges. God did not design us to stand isolated and alone. He created us to be part of a forest, an ecosystem, a community of diverse people who lift each other up, who provide necessary nutrients and water.

May we be like the trees — messaging, mothering, and making space for the next generation to become rooted. 

The sequoias lead the way: pointing toward heaven, surviving life’s fires, and flourishing together in community.

Dorina helps people feast on the glory of God through her weekly Glorygram and daily encouragement on Instagram.

The Scars We Can’t See

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“Is that a port scar?”

Her question startled me out of the blue. We were standing in waist-deep water, watching our kids play in the pool, making small talk as women do. We’d swapped names, shared kids’ ages, and laughed as they jumped into the water together, making fast friends from strangers as children do.

But I didn’t think she and I were going that deep, this soon.

By instinct, my fingers flew up to the small line across my collarbone, still puffy where it was healing after surgery and so many infusions. I took a deep breath. Did I really want to tell a stranger my story?

“Yes, it is,” I answered, not knowing what to say. “How did you—”

Before I could finish, she traced a similar line near her neck, a paler scar. I hadn’t noticed it next to her brightly colored swimsuit, but our eyes can learn to see what we didn’t see before.

“I always notice them now,” she said. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to make you feel weird. I know it’s a personal question. Sometimes I just feel this connection with women who get it, you know?”

Next thing I knew, we were swapping stories: lumps and bumps, mammograms and mastectomies, chemo and radiation, so many surgeries, so many losses, so much suffering that most people don’t see. We laughed and teared up behind our sunglasses, watching our kids splash carefree in the sunshine while we shared how cancer had cannon-balled into our lives.

“But look at us!” she said, waving her arms between us, stretching toward our loud and laughing crew of kids. “We’re here. We get to be with them still. Doesn’t it just make you all the more grateful?”

I can’t remember her name or most of what we chatted about on that sunlit day. But I’ve never forgotten how it felt to be seen. To have a stranger notice something important about my life and invite me to bring it into the light, if I wanted.

I’ve never felt embarrassed about my scars — and after cancer, I have many. I know one friend prefers to cover up her port scar, wanting to forget entirely about how her port pumped months of chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and bag after bag of IV fluids into her body. We have different ways of living with our scars, and we don’t always have to share them.

But we’re called to remember that we each bear them.

Human bodies are fragile and powerful, vulnerable and resilient. I taught my kids to marvel at this ability God gave our bodies. “Look at how you’re healing!” I’d say to them a day or two after placing a band-aid on a skinned knee or a playground cut. “God made our bodies to heal. It’s so amazing how God takes care of us that way.”

But as adults, we know that scars can stay. God gave the human body an incredible capacity for healing, but this doesn’t wipe away the physical and spiritual wounds that remain.

The scars from accidents or burns or cuts, literal or emotional.

The scars from surgeries we needed, to remove or repair injured parts of our bodies.

The scars from birth — or the medical treatments we hoped would bring babies, but didn’t.

The scars from sickness or disease or disability — and our doctors’ efforts to bring healing.

The scars from our cries of despair. The scars from dashed hopes.

The scars deep inside, from the ones who wounded us, in body or soul.

Some of our scars are visible. My younger kids will sometimes ask what happened to make the crisscrossed lines across my body, and I’ll share the story. But many scars cannot be seen. Which makes it even more important that we remember how we share them.

I love the resurrection stories in the Gospels, how vividly they describe Jesus’ resurrected body. He walked and talked and ate with His friends; He was no ghost. But even more powerfully — for those of us who are the walking wounded, which is all of us — He still bore the scars from His crucifixion.

What a remarkable gift of resurrection, that Jesus kept this visible reminder of what He had suffered. He did not show up on Easter morning with a super-human body, sparkling and smooth. Quite the opposite; He still bore the marks of his passion and death: the cut in his side, the nail holes in his hands and feet.

His wounds were the way His friends knew Him.

On a long-ago day in a bright blue pool, a scar made the way for a stranger to share a sliver of my suffering. The stories we offered to each other created kinship in the most unexpected places.

But no matter how we choose to live with our scars — to care for them in quiet or to hold them with a trusted confidant — we can move through the world with more tenderness and compassion when we remember that we have each known deep pain.

May we remember that to be human is to be scarred. Jesus knew this, too. But we can help each other bear our suffering. Because no part of us — body or soul — is hidden from our God who made and heals and loves us.

If you’re looking to journey through suffering to hope, check out Laura’s new series on Jesus in the Gospel of John, I AM: A Pilgrimage Through Lent.

Listen to Laura’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Your Value Is Determined by the Price He Was Willing to Pay

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It was time to sell the house.

Those words still catch in my throat when I tell the story. They mark the reality of a season I never imagined for myself — a season of heartbreak and deep grief. After nearly twenty years of marriage, my husband declared he was done, and I found myself sitting in Starbucks, trying to make sense of a life I no longer recognized.

The house wasn’t just a place on a map for me. It was our family home and a symbol of the life I thought I had — a life I fought hard to preserve. Selling it felt like giving up the last shred of what was.

At Starbucks, my sweet friend and realtor sat across from me. Her face was gentle as she looked at me.

“I’m so sorry, Nic. I can’t believe this is happening.”

It’s one of the problems with blindsides and betrayal, isn’t it? The confusion of the reality of things leaves us grappling with a nasty narrative about our worth. About our place in the world. Our value and identity.  

Clutching a latte in one hand and a wad of napkins in the other, I asked the question I dreaded most: How much do you think we should list our home for? My heart pounded in my ears as my friend explained the current market. And then, as though Heaven reached down and tuned me in, I heard her say the words that pierced right through my grief.  

“The value is determined by how much someone is willing to pay for it,” she said.

At that moment, the entire coffee shop melted away. There we sat, just my friend and I, her words lingering in the grief-drenched space between us. “Can you repeat that?” I asked quietly.

She nodded confidently and then proceeded to say, “The value is always determined by the price someone is willing to pay.” 

In a heartbeat — in a divine interception that changed everything — my mind went right to the cross, right to that perfect Man sent to rescue us. Jesus. He paid the ultimate price for us. His arms stretched wide, willing to sacrifice everything. For you. For me.

Right there, in the middle of Starbucks, with my mind turned to the cross, a message from my Father grew loud in my ears:

Your value is determined by what I was willing to pay. 

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your ancestors, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.”
1 Peter 1:18-19 NIV

On the cross, Jesus declared our worth in a way nothing else ever could. The God of the universe didn’t send a stand-in or a second-best offering. He gave His very life. That is what we’re worth to Him.

On the heels of the unthinkable in my marriage, I had been accepting hand-me-down messages about my value. I had been viewing myself through the eyes of the man who had walked away instead of through the eyes of the One who never would.

In that moment, God reminded me that our worth is never tied to a house, a marriage, or any earthly thing. Our worth was — and always will be — rooted in Him. Our value isn’t determined by the world or anyone in it. The cross has the final word on you.

So, my friend, if you ever find yourself questioning your worth — if rejection or pain whispers lies to your soul — remember the cross. Remember Jesus, remember the price He paid, remember His history-altering pursuit with you on His mind.

Your value was determined long ago. You are priceless. You are deeply loved — and you are wanted by the One who gave everything just to be with you.

Listen to Nicole’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Freedom in Accepting Our Imperfections

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When I was a little girl, my grandmother and great-aunts taught me to quilt. I loved stitching together carefully cut scraps of colorful fabric with their guidance. However, if I thought my row of stitches wasn’t straight enough, I would stitch a second, neater row alongside the first. My aunt quickly identified my misstep and my desire to make it better. I wanted it to be perfect.

That desire for perfection followed me through life. I played softball from the fifth grade through high school but didn’t enjoy it nearly as much if the temperature was too hot or the ground too muddy. I wanted the conditions to be just right.

I envy women who can claim the title of “reformed perfectionist” because, try as I might, I can’t seem to kick the habit. It seems I didn’t stumble into this mindset as an adult — it’s been there all along. Perfectionism has been woven into the fabric of my life. But God, in His grace, continually invites me to let go of control, embrace imperfection, and trust Him instead.

One of the most tangible lessons in this came under a looming photo deadline for my book It All Began in a Garden. With fifty chapters requiring fifty unique photos —  plus a front cover — I set out to capture perfect images. The book is about essential oils and the plants, trees, herbs, shrubs, fruit, and flowers that make them, so I  photographed outdoor plant material from Georgia to Utah, purchased specimens from local nurseries, and even ordered from Etsy.

With each photo I checked off my shot list, the challenge of capturing fresh, creative angles grew. I kept a few fragile plants in water in our refrigerator and took clippings from our yard. But the lighting was unpredictable, and plants would wilt before I could get the perfect shot.

My perfectionist’s heart was distressed.

For the indoor shots, I turned our dining room into a makeshift studio. One afternoon, after arranging and rearranging the book cover display, adjusting little bottles by millimeters, and shooting the setup from every possible angle, I thought I had it — my perfect cover photo.

But when I imported the RAW files onto my computer, my heart sank. The natural light had faded too much, leaving the image dull and lacking the vibrancy I envisioned. The prospect of trying to keep the little rose perky in the fridge another day; clipping more oregano, spearmint, rosemary, and lavender; and creating another curvy, curling piece of lemon peel felt overwhelming. My creative high was about to crash and burn.

Then I remembered — this book had been covered in prayer from the very beginning. God had given me the idea, and I had to trust He would see me through to completion. I sat down with that photo and carefully edited it, step by step, until what once looked lifeless transformed into what a friend later called “an author’s dream cover.”

That experience — and many others — remind me of the words God spoke to the prophet Jeremiah: “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand …” (Jeremiah 18:6 NIV). My striving for perfection is like a lump of clay resisting the Potter’s hands. Yet God, in His love, keeps molding me, not into an image of perfection, but into a vessel for His glory.

Working with less-than-ideal circumstances reminds us that God is there to mold us and fill our gaps.

Last summer, an accident led to surgery on my right arm. Recovery has been slow and I don’t know if my arm will ever be the same. But out of necessity, I’ve learned to be more comfortable with imperfection. Surprisingly, that mindset extended to areas beyond my physical abilities.

I’ve invited others into my creative process — beta readers for my first novel, a professional editor to critique my early pages, and writing peers to give honest feedback. It’s vulnerable, but if I avoid criticism out of fear of imperfection, I’ll miss out on the growth that comes from refining my work.

For so long, perfectionism held me back, making me afraid to try new things, to risk looking foolish. But lately, I’ve been stepping forward — attending online writing workshops, asking questions even when I feel tongue-tied, and volunteering examples from my work. Each time I push past the fear of not being “good enough,” I see God’s grace meeting me in the process.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: God never called us to be perfect — He calls us to be faithful. He asks us to trust Him with our weaknesses, to bring Him our best effort, and let Him do the rest. In Him is where we find freedom.

Our fruitless attempts to pursue perfection often hold us back or distract us from what’s good and possible.

So, dear friend, are you a recovered perfectionist or still trying to break free from its grip? What would it look like to surrender your perfectionism to God today? He isn’t waiting for you to be flawless — He’s simply asking you to be willing. And that is more than enough.

Listen to Dawn’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Something Good Is About to Happen

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During 2020, when the world was in pandemonium, and things were confusing, a phrase sprung up inside of me. I mentioned it to my husband, and it registered in his heart too. We then shared the phrase with our children. Soon after we heard them repeating it to those around them: “Something good is about to happen.” 

That year for Christmas we had sweatshirts made with that quote across the front. You’ll catch any one of us wearing that sweatshirt on any given day. As a family, we now live by that motto. 

Something good is about to happen. 

Living by that motto doesn’t excuse us from having hard things come our way and having to live by faith. Everyone faces trials and challenges on the daily. Hard things are part of life. 

To us, “something good is about to happen”  simply means we know we’re going to get through them. Not only are we going to get through them, we believe something good is going to happen as a result of those trials.

After all, the Bible does tell us in the book of Romans that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28 NIV). There’s another verse in Psalms that tells us everything we do as godly people will turn out well (Psalm 1:3 NIRV). 

These powerful Scriptures are written to us. Our job isn’t to make them happen. Our job is to believe the One who said them is faithful to do them. 

It’s easy for us to believe that God will work hard circumstances into good for others. If something unfortunate happens to a friend, we are quick to believe that God can turn their situation around. Yet, when it comes to ourselves, we don’t step into faith as easily. 

Maybe we doubt God’s ability to make bad things good because we know ourselves and we think we don’t deserve it. But His goodness has never been based on whether we deserve it. Jesus paid the price that we deserve so we can have access to God’s goodness. We may think it’s selfish to even ask the Lord for something like that. Yet, Jesus Himself told us His Father would give us anything we ask for in His name (John 16:23 NIRV). 

Perhaps it’s hard to believe that God wants something good to happen for you because it seems like your past has been full of hurt, brokenness, or abuse. I have a friend who grew up in an extremely abusive home. She simply thought good things were for other people, not her. Today she would tell you that she was wrong. When she began to believe that God was good, she encountered His love and realized He is for her; He changed her entire world around. 

Still, I can understand all of those feelings. I’ve definitely had them and still do at times. But then I remind myself that God is also my Father. He’s good. Any good father out there wants the best for his children. A good father would take any pain from his child, he’d mend any heartache, he’d help him out of a bind. That’s what good dads do. They take away the pain, they don’t cause it. 

The other day, I overheard my husband, Darian, talking to a construction worker about the crawl space under a home. They both had some pretty terrible stories of what they’d found in those spaces. Towards the end of that conversation, Darian mentioned how our oldest son needed work done in the crawl space of his last two houses, so he’d strapped on his old clothes, got on his hands and knees, and army-crawled into the mud and muck of those houses. Why? Darian is a good dad. He’s not afraid of mud and muck. Plus he possesses the power, knowledge, and ability to fix the problem.

Mud and muck happen in everyone’s life. The Bible refers to them as tests and trials. Only God really knows what the crawl space of our lives looks like and He isn’t intimidated by it. He’s a good Dad. He possesses all the power, knowledge, and ability to fix all of the unfortunate things in our lives. Whenever we have a trial, challenge, or something hard come our way, let’s just consider it another thing in the crawl space of life. Give it to the Lord. He’ll clean that up too. The Bible is filled with promises and answers. He is always faithful. 

When we, like my friend, truly encounter the love of our good, good Father, we begin to realize good things are for us as well. We gain a new outlook on life. It’s not that God changed — we change! He’s always been good. Jesus beautifully described our Heavenly Father when He said, “So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him” (Matthew 7:11 NLT).

When we realize the Lord is our good Father, we are not shaken by anything that happens around us or to us. 

If you’re facing a situation that seems extra muddy or mucky in your life today, talk to your Heavenly Father about it. He is faithful. He fights our battles for us. He is our Healer, Provider, Friend, and Comforter. He makes all things turn out well. He’s cleaned people’s mud and muck up all the way through the Bible, and He still does it today. He will do it for you. 

Get ready, friend, because something good is about to happen.

A Prayer for Strength and Trust: Seeking God in Psalm 86

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Sisters, pause. Breathe. Invite God to meet you in this moment.

Life can feel overwhelming, can’t it? Maybe today you’re carrying burdens too heavy to bear, feeling unseen, unheard, or uncertain about the path ahead. But here’s the good news — God is listening. He sees you. He cares. And He invites you to bring your whole heart to Him.

Let’s pray as David did in Psalm 86. Let these words be both your cry and your confidence.

Psalm 86 (CSB)

“1 Listen, Lord, and answer me,
for I am poor and needy.
2 Protect my life, for I am faithful.
You are my God; save your servant who trusts in you.
3 Be gracious to me, Lord,
for I call to you all day long.
4 Bring joy to your servant’s life,
because I appeal to you, Lord.

5 For you, Lord, are kind and ready to forgive,
abounding in faithful love to all who call on you.
6 Lord, hear my prayer;
listen to my cries for mercy.
7 I call on you in the day of my distress,
for you will answer me.

8 Lord, there is no one like you among the gods,
and there are no works like yours.
9 All the nations you have made
will come and bow down before you, Lord,
and will honor your name.
10 For you are great and perform wonders;
you alone are God.

11 Teach me your way, Lord,
and I will live by your truth.
Give me an undivided mind to fear your name.
12 I will praise you with all my heart, Lord my God,
and will honor your name forever.
13 For your faithful love for me is great,
and you rescue my life from the depths of Sheol.

14 God, arrogant people have attacked me;
a gang of ruthless men intends to kill me.
They do not let you guide them.
15 But you, Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God,
slow to anger and abounding in faithful love and truth.
16 Turn to me and be gracious to me.
Give your strength to your servant;
save the son of your female servant.
17 Show me a sign of your goodness;
my enemies will see and be put to shame
because you, Lord, have helped and comforted me.”

What verse spoke to your heart the most? Share in the comments below.

Let’s pray together. Leave your prayer request, and as you do, take a moment to pray for someone else’s request. Let’s lift each other up and trust that the God who hears will also answer.

God Never Asks Us to Bear Our Burdens by Ourselves

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My phone lights up and vibrates against the stack of books resting on my desk. I stop typing, fingers hovering above the keyboard, long enough to glance at it. A notification waits for me on the screen: a text from a friend. I swipe the text open and quickly read it. Mentally, I try to formulate a response. My phone times out while I’m still staring at it and the screen goes dark. I go back to work without responding. I know enough now to know it’s a sign that the darkness is starting to close in. 

When things get tough, I fold into myself. It’s not a conscious choice I make, but rather something that happens so incrementally I have a hard time noticing the pattern before it’s too late.  

The draw inward is two-fold. On one hand, it’s an attempt at self-preservation, a sort of hibernation I believe will allow me to emerge a rested and restored version of myself. On the other hand, it’s my way of making sure no one around me knows the truth. Turning inward allows me to keep the realest parts of myself — the ones that feel messy and complicated and hard to explain or love — buried deep. I convince myself it’s altruistic, that by removing myself from my public-facing life I’m sparing people the burden of who I am. 

But there’s a problem with my instinct to withdraw. It leaves me carrying my burdens alone. 

By the world’s standards, there’s nothing wrong with that course of action. The world tells us to power through and to fake it until we make it, to avoid being vulnerable with one another at all costs. Vulnerability, the world tells us, is dangerous. It’s safer to keep people an arm’s length away, to smile and insist we’re fine — even when we’re not. 

But the Bible tells us something different. In Galatians 6:2 (ESV), we’re instructed to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” It’s a command most of us readily embrace when it comes to helping others. We willingly step in to offer our friends help or a listening ear. We try to love our people well. Why, then, are we so hesitant to let others meet us in the same way? If we are to bear each other’s burdens, there’s a flip side to that assignment — we must also let other people bear ours.  

God designed us to live in community with one another. True community requires us to build relationships that aren’t predicated by perfection. When we’re honest with the people closest to us about where it hurts and the ways in which we’re struggling, it allows us to experience community as it was intended. When we let others help bear our burdens, we can be seen and loved . . . not for the person we pretend to be, but for who we are.  

Although it feels unnatural, I pick my phone back up and respond to my friend’s text with vulnerable honesty. The words aren’t perfect or polished, but I hit send before I have the chance to overthink them or second-guess my decision to tell the truth. I’m not surprised when my phone buzzes a minute later with another text, but I am surprised by the relief that floods through my body. Not because any problem has been solved or any angst eliminated, but because, suddenly, I’m not standing in the darkness alone.  

God never asks us to bear our burdens by ourselves. Through the people He’s placed in our lives, He reveals His own care for us. In choosing to let others in, I’m reminded that I’m not only held by the people in my life — I’m also held by Him.

Hidden in the Quiet, but Seen by God

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A few years ago, I went alone to London, England for the summer. It wasn’t the first time I’d traveled solo, but it was the first time I’d spent the majority of the time with myself. London was alive with people, but most days I was alone.

My aloneness was not, in fact, loneliness. One doesn’t always equal the other. (Just like how sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still find yourself a little lonely.) Of course, I sometimes felt lonely, but I was always sure Jesus was close. I remember walking through Hyde Park, an ice cream cone in hand, chattering away in my heart to Jesus, telling Him exactly what I was thinking and feeling and dreaming. I genuinely believe He replied. He was my Friend and my Companion. I talked to Him constantly. He was my solitude.

I’ve lived alone for six years. There were long seasons where sometimes my aloneness felt palpable, almost thick. I knew each night when I woke up it would still be just me in the morning, in my one-bedroom apartment, day after day.

Maybe you can’t relate to that. Maybe you’ve wanted to escape the hordes of humans in your home. But no matter if you feel deeply alone, or if you’d pay a lot of money to be alone right now, I believe what both of us need is solitude.

One of my favourite writers, Henri Nouwen, was possibly the king of solitude, and aside from Jesus, most of what I’ve learned is from him. Nouwen was convinced that without solitude it was virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.

Except, when I actually carve out the time to meet with Jesus in solitude, I find myself suddenly distracted by 600 different things. Nouwen called this our “inner chaos”. When I sit down to meet with Jesus in silence, I instantly remember all the things I need to do, the projects I need to finish, the texts I need to send, the dishes I need to put away, the fears I have about now and the future…

My inner chaos comes out, and it comes out loudly. Getting alone — really, deeply, truly alone — with God can feel far too vulnerable and scary. Solitude asks me to bear my heart, to admit my sin, and to trust my fears and dreams to God. And then solitude asks me to do it again and again.

Nouwen said, “Solitude is not a spontaneous response to an occupied and preoccupied life. There are too many reasons not to be alone. Therefore we must begin by carefully planning some solitude.”

I wonder what planning for solitude might look like for you. It’s not simply planning to be alone, but planning to slow down long enough to become aware of God’s presence in and around you.

When I practice solitude, I’ll close my eyes and sit with my legs curled under me, slowing my breath.

I’ll say a simple prayer: Abba, I belong to You, or Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, or I inhale The Lord is my Shepherd and exhale I have all that I need, or whatever else the Spirit brings to mind.

Or I won’t say anything at all, and instead picture Jesus in my mind’s eye: how He smiles at me (because He’s delighted to see me today), or I’ll see Jesus laughing (because I’m convinced He has one of the best laughs), or I’ll just picture His eyes. Sometimes His eyes cry along with mine.

There are days when I open my eyes again, and only thirty seconds or a minute has passed. I can’t help but wonder: how can I so easily devote four or five hours to Netflix and only bear 30 seconds with You? But I know Jesus gives me a lot more grace than I give myself, and I know disciplines come with practice, and practice comes with time.

And I know, the more time I give to Jesus, the more I’ll learn to hear His voice. More than anything, I want to learn His voice.

Sometimes solitude feels like I’m wasting my time. But sometimes in solitude, the presence of God is so near to me that I can’t help but cry. And that’s why we all need solitude — because whether you’ve been alone often or not at all, we need to hear the voice of Jesus. To sit in His presence. To be keenly aware that God is with us and that the love He has for each of us is like a waterfall — how it pours out over and over, never ending.

Jesus said, “When you pray, go into a private room, close the door, and pray unseen to your Father who is unseen” (Matthew 6:6 NIV).

So this day, this month, this year… pray unseen, friend. In quiet. In solitude. With words or maybe without. And when you do, you will be deeply seen.

I promise you.

 

Listen to Aliza’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast anywhere!