Knowing How to Discern in Uncertain Times

Knowing How to Discern in Uncertain Times

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Therefore, brothers and sisters, in view of the mercies of God, I urge you to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God; this is your true worship. Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may discern what is the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God.
Romans 12:1-2 (CSB)

We’re more than halfway through 2020, transitioning into the school year and most likely spending the rest of year sheltering-at-home. The continued waves of grief and loss and constant adjusting has worn us down, and yet we must continue on. We don’t have a choice but to take in new information on an almost daily basis because we’re figuring out life as we go. It can feel like a fire hydrant of information is being spewed at us, and sometimes it can feel too much to process.

It’s difficult to discern what is true, what is real, what is most urgent, or what we need to plan long-term when everyone has an opinion and a reason for doing something. More than ever, we need God’s wisdom to make our way through this time. When everything around us gets too loud, let’s not lean on the latest news report or tweet or the already digested spiritual truth from another. Instead, let’s go to the Word of God first and have our minds renewed by the truths and promises of God. Let’s trust that the Holy Spirit will guide us and teach us to live as Jesus did — loving our neighbor (Luke 10:25-37), considering others above ourselves (Philippians 2:3-4), and even being righteously angry at injustice (Matthew 21:12-13).

God, keep us grounded when we don’t know who or what to trust anymore. Renew our minds by Your Word and give us wisdom to discern the next right thing we need to do. Amen. 

The Profound Gift of Grieving in Front of Our Children

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My children hate seeing me sad or mad. They want me to be happy, to smile. They need to know that I’m okay, because if I’m okay, their world is okay.

But what about the times it isn’t okay? What happens when the walls cave in and the heart explodes and ache can’t be hidden? What then? How do I grieve in front of my children without putting it on them?

Sometimes we carry our own childhood fears and experiences into our parenting without realizing it, and other times we are quite aware of it and we make vows to protect ourselves and our children. We believe we’re protecting them, but perhaps it’s possible we’re avoiding the opportunity to teach them about pain and grief and how to express it all. We need to teach our kids how to be human, how to feel and process and not hide, how to be naked and unashamed in our grief.

There’s wisdom in being aware and not laying our heavy burdens on little hearts that are not ready, but I think it’s good and helpful and kind to let our children see our humanity and our grief and how to deal with it in healthy ways.

After my mother died, I decided to let my children in on my grief.

I sat my children down and explained to them that I was sad about Grandma Suzy and that at times they were going to see me cry. I told them I was okay, that it was normal to be sad, and that they didn’t have to worry about me or be afraid. I told them that showing sadness was nothing to be ashamed of. I then hugged each of my kiddos and told them how very much I loved them.

And then, when the grief hit randomly, I cried. I didn’t hide from them. I wanted them to see the reality of grief so that one day, when they grieve, they would know it’s not shameful or ugly or something to hide or run from. They would know it’s a part of life, of the human experience, of sin and death in this world and also of the hope that one day there will be no more grieving or death, no tears or broken hearts. I wanted them to know it’s okay to feel when they need to feel, cry when they need to cry, and scream into their pillow when the pain is too great and their whole body might explode from the fire of it all.

They can’t learn how to do that if I hide it from them.

One thing I didn’t anticipate in my grieving was the blessing of comfort my children would give me. My youngest daughter, who was seven at the time of my mom’s death, felt with me. One afternoon, during that first week of grieving, I was going through pictures of my mom, and I started crying. My sweet little girl, who knew this was okay and normal and not going to last forever, held a little fabric angel in her hands that hospice had given me. She was looking at it and at me, and she began to cry gently. She was feeling my ache. She came over, sat on my lap, and hugged me. We cried together, weeping over the loss of Grandma Susy. Did my girl feel her own pain at the loss of her grandma? I’m sure she did, but she didn’t really know my mom since she was only a toddler when my mom had moved away. But she felt grieved anyway, and it was so dear.

Afterwards, we wiped our eyes, kissed, and carried on. We were okay together.

The gift of a child’s comfort, I am convinced, is straight from the heart of God, their little arms showing us His arms. The comfort of a child is both overwhelming and healing.

This is the gift of grief: healing comfort is experienced through the tender intimacy of shared vulnerability. And to experience this gift with your child is nothing short of precious and a rare grace.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NLT)

This post was originally written by (in)courage alum Sarah Mae in September 2019. 

What to Do with Indecision Paralysis

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By the time you read this, I will have already made a decision. But right now, I’m smack dab in the middle of uncertainty. Uncertainty is not my favorite place to be.

What’s plaguing me right now is the decision I must make about my children’s education for the impending school year. Here in California, all schools are mandated to start online this fall. I can choose to enroll my three kids in conventional public school, as we’ve always done, with the hope that distance learning will be a short-lived experience and eventually students will be back in the classroom. Our district is also offering an online-only independent study option where students can learn at their own pace with a one-year commitment. Or I could choose to homeschool my children in the traditional sense and be responsible for choosing their curriculum and guiding all their learning.

I’m like a weary traveler who has come to a three-pronged fork in the road with no map or compass to confirm which way I should go. From what I can see, each path has some bright spots as well as rocky terrain. All are partially shrouded in indecipherable shadows.

I feel stranded, abandoned, unprepared to take a step forward in any direction.

Indecision paralysis has its grip on me. My anxiety rises with each passing minute.

As my eyes dart from one path to the next, the questions in my mind swirl with increasing intensity. What if I can’t juggle work and meeting my children’s needs? What if I make the wrong decision? What if I change my mind? What if I’m stuck and can’t turn back? What if it’s a disaster? What if I fail?

I pile all the pros and cons and what-if’s into a mountain of anxious uncertainty. My clarity is obstructed like a fog that won’t lift.

Have you been there, friend? Are you stuck in the muck of uncertainty today?

Maybe you’re a parent like me and you’re trying to discern what’s best for your kids in the face of an ongoing, ever-changing, unprecedented pandemic. Or maybe your brand of uncertainty is totally different. Maybe you’re at a crossroads in your career or a relationship. Maybe you’re trying to decide whether to go back to school or spend the rest of your savings on another round of IVF or whether to have that uncomfortable conversation about race again.

I don’t know what’s making your brow furrow and stomach knot up in indecision, but I do know this: When we’re faced with uncertainty, our only certain choice is to turn to Jesus.

It’s natural that I would feel the weight of deciding how my three sons will be educated for the upcoming school year. It’s a decision that will have heavy implications for each of them personally and for our family. It’s okay to feel uncertain and stressed.

Where I’ve missed the mark is in believing that I’m alone in making whatever decision I face. I feel like it’s all up to me! (Do you ever feel that way too?) Like the world hinges on my ability to synthesize and analyze incomplete information, perfectly fill in the blanks and accurately predict the future. I’m so afraid of making a mistake.

But nowhere in God’s Word does it say the world — or motherhood or marriage or ministry or next Tuesday — hinges on my ability, or on yours. Nowhere does Scripture say, Though shalt make every decision perfectly and never make a mistake. Because that’s not God’s heart for us.

So what does Scripture say?

God is with you. “The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged” (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV).

God will guide you. “He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way” (Psalm 25:9 NIV).

God gives wisdom. “If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking” (James 1:5 NLT).

Need more assurance that these things are true? Read Psalm 139. Read it every day this week. Read it on your Bible App in different translations. Then be honest with God about where you are. Tell Him what your personal fork in the road looks like. Tell Him if you feel alone or scared, lost or mad or overwhelmed.

Then rehearse the truth: “Even there your hand will lead me; your right hand will hold on to me” (Psalm 139:10 CSB).

In this moment, I still haven’t decided what to do about the school year. But this I know: God will give me wisdom when I ask. God is with me, and He will guide me no matter what the path looks like.

I’m not alone. He’s right here.

He’s right there with you too.

For more reminders that God is with you in the thick of it, sign up for Becky’s monthly newsletter.

When Rest Feels like Work

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I sat on the edge of the dock with my legs dangling off. My feet were flat upon the water as though I could step out on the lake at any moment. The space was calm. A slight breeze swayed the tree branches. The children found playmates with the pebbles, mud castles, and fish freshly caught. I sat there cupped in God’s nature with my heart racing. I was unable to be as calm as the water. After three days of being at the lake, I still didn’t know how to rest. For some, rest comes easy; for me, it feels like work. 

I am good at being productive. I am good at being busy. I like the pressure and clock ticking and deadlines. Those powers energize me. I like using my imagination and managing people. But being here, at the family lake house makes me antsy. There is no place to be and nothing I have to do. I almost feel naked. I don’t know what to do when I have nothing to do. My body, mind, and soul need rest — I know this. But I fight rest with everything in me. Rest means wrestling with the deeper things I have been avoiding. When everything on the outside of me gets quiet then everything on the inside of me gets loud. It’s unsettling, and I want to run out on the water where my feet find ease. I want to run away from me.

I’ve taken the role as the “fishing supervisor” this vacation so I can spend a bit more time lounging and messing with the best online gambling sites in Texas on my tablet, and the children repeatedly bring me their tangled fishing wire. Which means this task requires focus, patience, and gentleness. While fishing with children there are three things you won’t find: focus, patience, and gentleness. I send them off while I give all my attention to the massive knot they have managed to whip together. I’m tempted to yank and pull and throw the whole bundle of chaos away. But I wait. I slowly tug and massage the tangles apart. An unraveling begins. It doesn’t happen all at once. It is a process. If I get frustrated, the knot gets worse. If I take my time and use careful intention, the knot loosens.

As I slowly pull at the corner of the wire, I wonder if this is what God is doing within me. He is using focus, patience, and gentleness to undo the knots that have built up in me. Maybe that’s what rest is about. I’m coming back to God with my mess, and He uses love to untangle me. This renewing of my soul requires that I also practice focus, patience, and gentleness. If I fight back, more damage is done. But if I stay and allow God to care for my soul, my insides will loosen. I will be soft. God, in a literal sense, is a fisher of (wo)men. He doesn’t just catch lost souls, but He has compassion upon them and wants them to be free—untangled. For my soul to become untangled, I have to stop. I have to exhale. I have to rest. 

Resting doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work at rest. I have to be okay feeling antsy and anxious just sitting at the edge of the dock. I have to feel the mess I have been avoiding. I have to look at the chaos and tangles and knots choking my chest tight. I have to let the outside beauty penetrate my inner storm. And God does this. He does this by gently untangling me one tug at a time. This time, instead of running, being busy, or avoiding, I stay. I let God do His work on my soul. 

I want a lot of things in life, but one thing I desperately want is to be free inside. I don’t want hooks and wires mangled up inside of me, making it hard to breathe. I want to be fully present with the world, others, and God. The only way to be productive at anything is to learn how to rest — truly rest. At first, it might be painful. I’ll want to squirm and find something else to do. But when I give God space to tend to my soul, a beautiful freedom awaits me.

I need God’s help to rest. I need His grace to hold me as effortlessly as that dock. I am rocked and carried. God’s presence hovers over me like the trees bringing me shade. I need grace to not accomplish something. I need grace to let the tugging make me uncomfortable. I need grace to sustain me when rest feels like work. The truth is, rest is work. God is doing healing work inside of me. He is untangling and setting me free.

An Act of Courageous Influence

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When Pharaoh’s horses with his chariots and horsemen went into the sea, the Lord brought the water of the sea back over them. But the Israelites walked through the sea on dry ground. Then the prophetess Miriam, Aaron’s sister, took a tambourine in her hand, and all the women came out following her with tambourines and dancing. Miriam sang to them:

Sing to the Lord, for he is highly exalted;
he has thrown the horse and its rider into the sea.

Then Moses led Israel on from the Red Sea, and they went out to the Wilderness of Shur. They journeyed for three days in the wilderness without finding water. They came to Marah, but they could not drink the water at Marah because it was bitter — that is why it was named Marah.

The people grumbled to Moses, “What are we going to drink?” So he cried out to the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree. When he threw it into the water, the water became drinkable.

The Lord made a statute and ordinance for them at Marah, and he tested them there. He said, “If you will carefully obey the Lord your God, do what is right in his sight, pay attention to his commands, and keep all his statutes, I will not inflict any illnesses on you that I inflicted on the Egyptians. For I am the Lord who heals you.”

Then they came to Elim, where there were twelve springs and seventy date palms, and they camped there by the water.
Exodus 15:19-27 (CSB)

Miriam and the rest of the Israelites had already endured so much when they experienced the plagues of Egypt. God saved them from destruction and then from the wrath of the Egyptians at the Red Sea. But instead of pressing on through the desert the moment they crossed the sea, the Israelites stopped to praise the Lord for what He had done for them. Moses, Miriam’s brother, sang a song of praise. Then Miriam picked up a tambourine and led all the women of Israel in dancing and singing.

In that moment when the waters rushed back together, covering the Egyptians and saving the Israelites, only God knew that this was just the beginning of their journey. Moses, Aaron, and Miriam were following God’s leading one day at a time; they had no idea how long they’d be wandering in the desert, seeking God and His promised land. But without realizing that their choices on that day could set a standard for years to come, Moses and Miriam chose to stop their journey and thank God for all He’d done so far. They chose to worship right away, not waiting for a more convenient time or a more comfortable place. They showed the Israelites by their example that worship and gratitude was a priority.

Overwhelmed with thanksgiving and perhaps inspired by her brother’s worship, Miriam led the women, praising God and singing, “Sing to the Lord, for he is highly exalted.” She refused to let the moment pass without praising God for what He had done. His work was magnificent and deserved praise. And by stopping to praise God, Miriam created a precedent in Israel and a lasting memory for the people. When they faced difficulty and doubt in the future, they would be able to look back on that day, remember what God had done, and trust His faithfulness.

Any doubt about the importance of putting worship first was erased just a few days later. Faced with great thirst from walking through the desert and water that wasn’t fit to drink, the Israelites began to complain. How quickly we forget! The Lord had just rescued them from a vicious king who’d enslaved them for years. He had just split open the sea to give them safe passage and then swallowed up the army that followed to capture them. And in the span of less than a week, the Israelites went from thanking God for His provision to whining about their thirst.

Rather than despair of how quick the Israelites were to change their tune at the first new sign of trouble, we can learn from Miriam’s forethought and intentional gratitude. She may not have known how many years of struggle they would face, but she knew they were walking into the wilderness. She probably knew that short or lengthy, their journey would be a hard one and the Israelites would need an anchor to help them recover their thankfulness for God’s faithful work in their lives. What better way to help them remember than a celebration of God’s goodness, complete with singing and dancing and praising Him for what He had done until now?

When our days are full and our lives are busy, it can be easy to move quickly from one challenge to the next. After all, at times it feels like as soon as one problem is solved, another one pops up. Who has time to pause and reflect, to stop and pray? We do.

No matter what trials God has taken us through, we cannot deny His hand in our rescue. We cannot ignore that regardless of our own efforts, we would still be fighting and running and panicking if He hadn’t come through with a supernatural solution. And when He does step in and intervene for us, our next step can only be praising Him! When we recognize His provision and His great love for us, we must express our gratitude. If we wait, instead, for a more convenient time or a more comfortable place, we might never get around to it. And if we don’t make a habit of thanking God for His work in our lives, we might just end up like the Israelites, whining about bitter water and wandering the wilderness for decades.

Let’s be intentional with our gratitude and lead others to praise God with us.

This was originally written by Mary Carver for Women of Courage: a Forty-Day Devotional and has been edited for today’s post.

Never Alone Even When I Am Alone

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I stared at the computer screen, blinking back tears as my eyes took in the images of my daughter proudly showing off the tooth she had lost that day. I wanted to reach my arms through the screen, hug my girl tight, and tell her how excited I was. But I couldn’t. Instead, I sat in the small computer lab housed in the wing of the mental hospital where I was an inpatient for the first time and felt waves of hopelessness and despair wash over me.

Depression had led me to this place — dark thoughts having run away with all reason and logic — and I knew I needed to be here to be safe. But that did not change the fact that I knew what I was missing at home. At night when I was alone in my bed in the psych ward, I would think about my girls and worry that I was ruining them for life by being gone and being ill. I worried that I would never be able to be the mom I thought I should be. How could I, when I was barely hanging on to life itself?

I thought of all the moments I was missing. My two-year-old was adding new words to her vocabulary all the time, and my eight-year-old was deep in the thick of third grade, learning and growing and losing precious teeth without me. Though hope was low and my fears were high, I prayed and begged the Lord to take care of my girls. While in the midst of my despair, I felt foolish hoping that God could redeem the time that I was missing. I pleaded with Him to work in my oldest daughter Charlotte’s heart especially. She was a fairly new follower of Christ, and I didn’t want my time away to be something that damaged her faith. There are so many challenges with becoming a young woman of God, and my heart ached with the thought that I was making it even harder for her.

The second time I was discharged from a psychiatric hospital, I knew it wasn’t the end of my journey. The therapist I met with daily told me I needed further treatment and recommended I look into residential programs, something I didn’t even realize existed. After doing some research I knew that residential treatment could be beneficial, but once again my thoughts turned toward my family. I had already been gone on two separate occasions, and now I was looking at spending an entire month away. After my husband and I decided that I would go, I still felt the weight of my decision hanging over my family and wrestled with whether or not I was doing the right thing. In the end, I did the only thing I knew to do: pray and trust that the Lord was guiding my steps.

The weekend before I was scheduled to leave for the residential facility, I was putting away clothes in Charlotte’s room when I saw the note she had pinned to her memo board. There in her neat, school-girl script were these words: “Mom has depression, but I will praise the Lord.” Tears immediately sprung to my eyes, and I gave thanks to God for giving me this glimpse into my girl’s heart. Not only was the Lord shepherding my heart through this difficult journey of depression, but He was also shepherding Charlotte’s heart. He was helping her to see that sometimes the truest expression of praise comes from a heart that has felt deep hurt and lived to see the goodness of the Lord in the midst of the struggle. He was helping her to see that though we can’t always choose our circumstances, we can choose our response to those circumstances. A heart that loves Him is a heart that praises Him through it all.

At that moment I realized that while my depression was a sad and difficult road to walk, I didn’t walk it alone, and neither did my daughter. Indeed, we were both being carried by our Savior, and He was using each step on the path to make us more like Him. I didn’t need to worry about what would happen to my girls while I was away. Even though I knew my love for my daughters was imperfect, Christ’s perfect love more than made up for what I lacked. When I couldn’t be there for them, I knew God always would be. God’s Word promises that “whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty,” (Psalm 91:1 ESV)  and that we will find refuge under His wings. I can think of no better place to be than in His everlasting arms.

When You Don’t Feel Brave, Choose to Have Courage

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I’m sure you’re like me, dealing with some very tough, never-did-you-think decisions and feelings lately. I realize we all live in tumultuous times wondering what the future holds. 

I’m preparing to make a tricky decision for my daughter’s next school year. I am wondering what my calling will look like this fall, and I’m praying for a friend to get a job after a layoff. I have loved ones dealing with depression. I know friends living in cities that are locked down or are burning with protest. I’m concerned for families with compromised immune systems, and for my own family not to get the virus. I have friends who experience racism because of the color of their skin, who are afraid for their children in ways I can’t imagine. I can quickly be overwhelmed by the news and the upcoming election. Sometimes I feel anxious about doing normal activities like going to the grocery store and gathering with friends I miss.

I sense the Holy Spirit reminding me that worry and fear are nothing new. But in these trying times while living everyday life, I must make a choice — I must choose to live courageously.

Doing so can be difficult, and it won’t always come naturally or look the same for everyone. But as Joshua 1:9 says, we must each decide to be strong and courageous because the Lord is with us wherever we go.

Being courageous means to choose it, to live it on purpose, to want it more than what we feel or think. But it’s impossible to be brave without God. Just like forgiving others is first a choice, we must decide to trust God to make us courageous. Then, our feelings and our actions will sync up at some point with that commitment.

Courage is defined as “strength in the midst of pain or grief.” It is needed in small tasks others may never see, or in doing the next thing we are called to do that might be big and visible to many. When life gets frustrating because it’s not what we expected, when we are hit with one thing after another, when we don’t know if we have enough wisdom or strength to make the right decisions for today, much less plan effectively for tomorrow, we need to choose to be courageous.

God doesn’t tell us to be strong and courageous today to make tomorrow easier. He tells us to do so because He knows we will need it in our lives. But courage doesn’t come from mustering up something inside of us; it comes from His promise to be with us wherever we go, whatever comes our way, no matter how we feel or what others might do.

When God shared those words with Joshua for the first time, it was the beginning of a new normal too. There was a change in leadership and a new generation rising up to follow God. They faced a very real enemy and were on the verge of seeing God come through on His long awaited promises.

God instructed Joshua to have courage, not just for himself but also for those he was leading. Similarly, God empowers others in the Bible to be strong and courageous so they can lead well too:

Deborah led her people as a judge while her top military official wasn’t brave enough to do anything without her. She was confident God would protect her and give her courage so others could fight the enemy alongside her.

Esther didn’t have all the answers she needed and felt powerless in her position as queen. But with God’s courage, Esther became willing to risk her life to spare her people.

Hannah was barren, but she was brave enough to ask for what her heart really longed for. And when she received her son Samuel, she was courageously willing to offer him back to God.

Ruth was widowed and without a homeland to go back to. But she chose to be brave and follow her mother-in-law to a new land and start over. She trusted God would provide blessing and favor beyond what she could have hoped for.

Mary was young, but she had faith that God could do the impossible. Because of her courageous faith, she birthed the Messiah of the world.

All of these biblical examples are people like you and me who chose to have courage in both the big and small moments. They lived with the expectation that God would come through, and their courage impacted generations after them.

Being courageous is an act of faith. When we choose to believe and trust in God, He makes us courageous as we obey His Word.

So, let’s trust God with our strange today and our unknown tomorrows. Let’s choose to be courageous and be expectant that God will keep His promises in the big and small moments. Let’s remember we can do anything, even when we don’t feel like it or see a way through, because God is always with us.

When Church Is Not Bound by Four Walls

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Hallelujah!
Praise God in his sanctuary.
Praise him in his mighty expanse.
Praise him for his powerful acts;
praise him for his abundant greatness.
Praise him with trumpet blast;
praise him with harp and lyre.
Praise him with tambourine and dance;
praise him with strings and flute.
Praise him with resounding cymbals;
praise him with clashing cymbals.
Let everything that breathes praise the Lord.
Hallelujah!
Psalm 150 (CSB)

If church is defined as a “house of worship,” then I can’t think of a better house to worship God in than the mountains. I am awed by the grandeur of His handiwork and made small by His greatness. I believe we meet God best when our hearts are stilled, and we are humbled by His majesty and power.

I had church at the Maroon Bells of Colorado today.

Nature preached a sermon that echoed off rugged cliffs and into the valley below. “Grace upon grace,” murmured the bubbling streams that fed the still lake. “God with us,” whispered the shhhh-ing of the aspen leaves as the winds picked up their voices and scattered them upon the earth.

God with us. Grace.

Despite the turmoil of this world and the problems that seem unsolvable, God’s presence is still with us. His grace is still at work to draw us near and to let us hear and know and see the Almighty One. I believe that, but sometimes I forget it.

I’ve had church in many places: I’ve worshiped while washing dishes, I’ve met God at my mailbox, and my car is one of my favorite places to pray. Of course, gathering anywhere with other believers is church. I’ve had church in arenas with 10,000 people singing together. I’ve had church in the barn, where it smells like manure and hay and dust. I’ve experienced church in my living room, with an open Bible and a cup of coffee. Sometimes church comes when you can snatch a minute away from the busyness of regular life.

But the church I love best is in nature. It is here that I am face to face with the mystery — and mastery — of God Himself. Today, I sat in silence and watched the sunlight chase clouds over the mountain peaks and ignite the aspens with vivid color. There simply are no words that can capture the experience of it. I breathed in and closed my eyes and stilled my heart.

As I turned to leave, my eyes fell on a small piece of driftwood at the shore of the lake.

To my eyes, it looked exactly like a wing in flight. I tucked it in my pocket as a reminder of this moment in God’s magnificent sanctuary. Maybe angels above are singing, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my heart that fluttered at this perfect little find. Maybe there is a message in it for me somewhere. I’m not one to go looking for signs.

But this I know: Grace upon grace, God is with us still. This, my friends, is church.

This message was written by Rachel Anne Ridge, as published in the (in)courage Devotional Bible and the Summer (in) the Psalms Devotional Journal.

Today’s post concludes our summer Bible reading series, and oh, was it a good one! We are so thankful to have journeyed with many of you through these weeks as we read forty Psalms together. If you missed a video conversation or want to walk through the Psalms yet yourself (there’s no rule that says you can’t do this study in the fall!), find all the details and videos right here.

If you journeyed through the Psalms this summer with us,
share one thing God showed you in the comments below!

The Faithfulness of God in the Midst of Bitter Loss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

How Do We Measure the Immeasurable?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

An Easy Way to Make the World Better Right Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be kind today and . . . 

            Ask someone how they’re feeling.

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

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

Be kind today and . . . 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legal definition of sexual assault

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

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

“Oh,” Hannah said gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ended the call.

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I open my mouth and start to tell her.

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

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

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

“I’m scared to tell you,” I say.

She nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel like I can breathe again.

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

Michelle listens to me and I feel heard.

Michelle listens to me and I start to heal.

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have decided to step into the light.

On Hearing Christ, Not Chaos and Conspiracies

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what happens if we turn to God?

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Living Well with Unfilled Longings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The restlessness remains.

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

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

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

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

So, for now, the answer is daily surrender.

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

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

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

 

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

The Practice of Authentic Praise

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So . . .”

Here it comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

How to Pray When Healing Doesn’t Come

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can we pray for you?

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

 

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