Finding Refuge under His Wings

Finding Refuge under His Wings

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One of my favorite things to do when I’m running is to listen and watch for birds. I have often witnessed birds take a few steps across the trail, then run and begin to flap their wings, and eventually take flight. It’s a beautiful process to watch them uniquely walk, run, and then soar to new heights.

After my husband’s death from cancer, a group of my girlfriends came over to my house and totally redecorated our bedroom. They painted the furniture, added new light fixtures, rearranged the room and found new art to spruce up the walls. They helped me to transform a place that had been like a hospital room for several months into a place of peace and refuge.

One of my friends, Bergen, sewed a beautiful blue and white throw pillow for my bed with these words stitched on it: “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge,” (Psalm 91:4). A pair of embroidered birds is perched on a branch next to the verse. This special pillow has moved with me to two new houses now. The pillow bears a message I hold close to my heart, reminding me of God’s comfort and faithfulness on my grief journey.

The psalmist uses several images in Psalm 91 to express the ultimate sense of security we can find in relationship with God. Verse 4 paints an image of a baby bird covered by his mother’s feathers and goes on to say, “His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”

Bird feathers are known to be a fantastic form of insulation against the cold. This is why many people love down pillows and comforters. Some feathers are coated with oil, which also creates a waterproofing effect to protect birds from rain and snow.

Throughout the Bible are many examples of imagery related to birds, feathers, and wings. In Ruth 2:12, Boaz encourages the young Moabite widow Ruth with these words: “May you be richly rewarded by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge.” In Psalm 17:8, David writes, “Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” Later, in Psalm 57:1, David says, “I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed.”

These verses emphasize God’s character as protector, comforter, shelter, and strength. When we are hidden in His shadow or under His wings, we are protected like a bird from the elements and from the Enemy who hunts us down. We are not left vulnerable and out in the open but protected in a safe place. The Bible does not promise us there will be no trials or heartache in this life, but it does assure us that Immanuel will be with us.

Running has been a kind of therapy throughout my life, especially through my grief journey after my husband Ericlee’s death. When I am on the road or a trail, God is faithful to meet me there. He runs alongside me. He covers my broken heart with His feathers and provides a safe shelter to share my feelings, my emotions, and my fears. He has been my refuge like He was for David, Ruth, and countless others in the Bible.

The other day I saw a photograph of a mother bird with wings extended like arms around her two bird babies on either side. At a quick glance, the babies looked like they were an extension of the mama’s body because they were enveloped by her feathers. The mama bird protectively wrapped her wings around her chicks in the same way God wraps His arms around us.

Friend, rest today under the covering of His wings. Let Him shelter your heart and provide the strength you need to heal and eventually soar through whatever difficult circumstances you are facing today.

How has God been a refuge and shelter to you?
Can you think of any examples of times where you felt His comfort?

 

Dorina has written a book called Walk, Run, Soar, that will release in September 2020. Subscribe to her Glorygram newsletter for weekly encouragement and all the behind-the-scenes details about the book!

 

[bctt tweet=”When we are hidden in His shadow or under His wings, we are protected like a bird from the elements and from the Enemy who hunts us down. -@DorinaGilmore:” username=”incourage”]

When We Give Each Other the Benefit of the Doubt

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Recently, three friends and I joined thousands of buyers and sellers at the Atlanta International Gift and Home Furnishings Market, one of the world’s largest wholesale shows. We received guest passes, and although our name badges identified us as exhibitors, really we were gawkers, mostly-window shoppers, and grown women acting as giddy as kids in a candy shop.

We could hardly comprehend our good fortune: a day roaming show rooms, tasting samples, and hunting bargains on the cash and carry floor, plus the anticipation of a dinner event that evening. For most, the market is big business. For us, it was play: taking selfies with a man creating a balloon dress for a showroom display, obtaining an up-close-and-personal look at coming trends, getting a glimpse of what it feels like to work an outside-the-home job. The years we’ve spent caring for and teaching our children made this extravagant dose of me-time, of us-time, even sweeter.

We shared intimate details of our lives in a crowded food court over overpriced chicken salad sandwiches and bottled water. We roamed together when our interests were the same and apart when we wanted to explore different things. We were altogether comfortable.

Late in the afternoon, we found ourselves seated in barstools while our hair was styled. (It’s hard to resist when someone wielding a fancy tool offers to do your hair, especially when you have somewhere to go later that day.) When they added extensions that perfectly matched our current shades, our heads nearly exploded. We were awed by how good it felt: mirrored reflections that more closely matched what we felt on the inside.

We oohed and aahed over each other, hugged the man who made the magic happen, and walked away transformed. I knew how hard it would be to wear the extensions later, outside this circle of friends, faced with what the world might say (or whisper).

In some relationships, I’ve worn a mask, not sure if my friends would like the real me. But in true friendships, we view each other through a lens of love. Love offers acceptance. When we act in love, we handle each other’s hearts with care.

When love covers all, friendships can grow roots, both wide and deep.

As the market closed, we walked to the crowded shuttle stop to catch a ride back to the car. We were pointed toward the buses at the end of the street, which would take us to the correct lot. We asked a driver if his bus went to our destination. He looked too tired to utter another word, and so he didn’t. He simply pointed toward the bus. We were among the first seated in the front. It felt good to sit down in the big, cushioned seats after a long day on our feet. Finally, the shuttle left and we wound through downtown in the dark, stopping at one hotel after another, until the last passengers — except for us — exited the bus.

We asked the driver if his bus dropped passengers at our lot. It didn’t. “When we asked, you pointed us to the bus,” we said. “I pointed to the sign,” he replied. The sign which apparently indicated the bus didn’t stop at our lot.

Oh boy.

If at that moment thought bubbles had appeared over our heads, like in a cartoon, they would have shown how exasperated he was that we had entered the wrong bus and how exasperated we were that he wouldn’t speak to us and answer when we’d asked him on the street. Now we were goodness-knows-where, running late for our dinner, and had no idea how to reach our car.

And then something astonishing happened: silently, in unison, we all laid down our frustrations and let them go. As the tension left his face, our bus driver declared that he would not only take us to our lot, but that he was thankful not to head straight back into the shuttle line, as if we’d done him a favor.

We talked the entire way. He told us how how people try to pull ahead of a bus when they see it coming because they don’t want to get stuck behind it, without realizing how difficult it is to stop quickly. We told him about our hair extensions while he craned his neck to get a good look in his big bus mirror. We asked about his regular routes, and he told us that he drives groups of school children to the historic gold museum just north of our county.

I looked at the friend sitting beside me, and we smiled because we knew everything was okay. Our driver showed such kindness when we were truly at his mercy. When we look for the good in people, and assume they are doing the best they can, we will find it. We can give each other the benefit of the doubt.

If we place love over all — over frustration, over misunderstanding, over differences, over inconvenience, over everything — we can give and receive with good intentions and free ourselves to see the good intentions in others too.

Do you remember a time when someone reacted to you in love
and assumed the best, or vice versa?

 

[bctt tweet=”When we look for the good in people, and assume others are doing the best they can, we will find it. -@DawnMHSH:” username=”incourage”]

This Is Love

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Driving through carpool line, Andrew held his bag of Valentine’s treats in his lap. I felt awful knowing that what he had to give to his classmates wasn’t nearly as cute and fun as what he would receive.

But as we inched closer to the front of the school, Andrew asked when they’d be passing out candy in class. He didn’t care that his treats weren’t decorated with cartoon characters and hearts or any indications of Valentine’s Day at all. But I did!

Andrew had reminded me the night before that he needed treats to share with his classmates the next day, and I had none. What kind of mom forgets Valentine’s treats for her third-grade son?

After I got the boys to bed, I ran to Target where the Valentine’s aisle looked like a bomb had exploded. Mismatched candy and gifts were everywhere but no appropriate elementary school cards or treats were to be found.

With no other option in site, I grabbed a few packs of mini Kit-Kat bars and decided my poor child could write “From Andrew” with a Sharpie on the back of each treat. I would apologize profusely and promise to never forget again.

The next morning as we drove to school, I wondered if I could make up my for my mom-fail with a big Valentine’s Day surprise when Andrew got home from school. Before it was his turn to get out of the car, I tried to think of a question that might help me figure out what to buy him.

“Andrew, what makes you feel loved?” I asked.

He thought for a minute and said, “THIS.”

“This?” I asked.

“Yeah. This. You being with me. You driving me to school and talking to me about my day. You telling me you’ll be there when I get home. That makes me feel loved. Thanks, Mom. I love you, bye!”

And he hopped out of the car.

This is love? You mean, I don’t have to work myself into a tizzy shopping for a toy that will convince my child I won’t forget him, even when I forget important things for him?

This is love? Even though I was grouchy the day before, so much so that Andrew asked if I was mad about something, more than once?

It’s been a over decade since that day, but I’ll never forget the words that spilled out of my little boy’s heart so effortlessly — words that changed the way I pressured myself into believing I had to be the perfect mom, words that helped me see God’s love for me.

As I drove home that morning, I wondered what I would say if God asked me what makes me feel loved.

Andrew’s words rang true for me too. This is love:

  • A promise that is kept.
  • A place that is certain.
  • Someone who is there for me again and again.

“Lord, this is love: You asking and caring. You being there. You keeping Your promises like You said you would. This is love. ”

And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them . . . There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect [complete] in love. We love because he first loved us.
1 John 4:16-19 (NIV)

We are loved. We don’t have to wait for God to show it. He already has. He promised He’d always be there for us, and He is — present and listening, certain and caring.

No matter what we are going through today, we can live and love from the overflow of being loved. We can know and rely on God’s promises and presence and be made complete in Him.

This is love.

 

[bctt tweet=”No matter what we are going through today, we can live and love from the overflow of being loved. -@reneeswope:” username=”incourage”]

You Are Worth Taking Care Of

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She was standing in front of the bouquets of flowers, with a shopping basket in one hand, purse slung across her shoulder, and her hair tired from a long day at the office. It was rush hour, when women from all walks of life intersected at Trader Joe’s to pick up food for dinner. “Hard to decide what to pick, huh?” I turned to smile, standing next to her. “Yeah,” she answered with a chuckle, probably to be polite. She wore a cool pair of spectacles and a cute wrinkle in her nose when she smiled. “What are you deciding between?” I asked. My new friend told me she’s not sure. She said she’ll often stand there, unable to choose. Then, she’ll go home with her groceries, without any flowers. “That used to happen to me all the time, ” I said. “I wouldn’t be able decide between the flowers I really wanted and the ones that cost less . . . ” “YES! Exactly!” my bespectacled friend interjected. She turned to me now with recognition. We were of the same tribe. Women who were unable to bring flowers home to enjoy. “I’d talk myself out of it,” I confided. “I’d say, It’s not worth it. They’ll only last a few days. I later realized what I was actually saying was, I am not worth it. What I find joy in for a few days isn’t worth it.” “So true,” my friend nodded with wide-eyed agreement. I asked her if there were flowers she’d loved as a little girl, if there were flowers she liked more as she grew up. This stranger-become-kindred-spirit started sharing stories about why sunflowers made her happy. They reminded her of summer and riding her bike with a white basket adorned with a plastic sunflower. But lately, she was drawn to hydrangeas because they were soothing. “Your stories are special,” I said. “There’s something about flowers. About how God made them. How God made us. I read that scientific studies show simply looking at flowers improves emotional health.” “Really?!” My friend was intrigued. “A Harvard study even showed that women who had the morning-blahs, who usually didn’t buy flowers, experienced a boost in energy and their moods lifted, lasting throughout the day, by seeing flowers in the kitchen first thing in the morning.” “How do you know all this?” she asked. I told her I had lost my spark a few years ago. I had been good at taking care of others and getting things done. But I hadn’t been good at nurturing my own heart or taking care of my well-being. So I became overwhelmed with stress, even though I was good at working hard, pleasing others, surviving, and pushing through. But in my honest moments, I longed to find my spark again: to experience God’s peace and joy in a fresh, intimate way. Women are heroes when it comes to loving and caring for others. But why is it so hard to give ourselves permission to rest and refresh, when we’re stressed and need it most? My friend began to share. I listened. “You are worth it,” I told her, as I looked in her eyes, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You are worth taking care of.” Deep inside us, God created an inner spirit that needs nurturing. We were made to be loved, cared for, and given attention. We all need permission to take better care of ourselves. We all need a friend to help us remember we are like beautiful flowers blossoming in the fields. As we picked out our flowers, I invited her to connect with me online. I told her I’m an author leading a community of women like us: kindred spirits on the journey to nurture our soul and find our spark again. As we said goodbye, I whispered, Thank You, God.

Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

God doesn’t want us to do more for Him. He longs to take care of us and whisper words of love and peace. Instead of layering on guilt when you feel stressed, let God love you by getting some tender love and care. Rest in your loving Savior’s arms. Be kind to yourself and rest. You are worth taking care of.
Soul Care Tip: Buy flowers for yourself. Behavioral research at Rutgers University found that simply looking at flowers improves emotional health, so get some for yourself. May the flowers remind you how valuable you are to Jesus. He is your peace.

A Prayer for Today:

Dear Jesus, Give me courage to choose beauty that comes from nurturing the true me. Like waves returning the sand, have Your way in me. Help me step away.
 I choose to be beloved, not busy, today. Amen.

On every page in You’re Worth Loving: 40 Days of Rest and Soul Care Guide, Bonnie guides you to take better care of yourself. For extra resources to refresh your soul, Bonnie created a new soul care package that includes the beautiful 40-day soul care guide ebook called “You’re Worth Loving,” 6 soul care teaching videos, 6 prayer podcasts, Scripture coloring pages, and access to a self-paced online book club! Click here to get the Whispers of Rest soul care resources package for yourself and for someone to encourage! We would love to encourage you to nurture your heart with God, so we’re choosing FIVE winners to receive Bonnie’s soul care package! Comment below with your favorite way to take better care of yourself for your chance to win!   [bctt tweet=”Rest in your loving Savior’s arms. Be kind to yourself and rest. You are worth taking care of.  -@thebonniegray:” username=”incourage”]

You Can’t Have Courage Without Connection

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Penny was the runt, the smallest kid on the playground in a new place to call home. We had landed in this unfamiliar Michigan town just three days prior, both grieving over what we lost and longing for what we knew. But this day at the playground promised to bring reprieve for our hurting hearts.

We got there early and planted ourselves close to the swirly green slide. My girl loves a swirly slide, especially if it’s green. Up she went and down she came, over and over again until I heard the familiar “Mama, help” from my curly-headed toddler whose legs were too tired to climb up the fortress once more. So up I went and down I came, over and over again until she regained her strength and independence.

That’s about when all the other kids descended upon her solitary playtime. Penny was halfway up the wooden stairs when two excited peers barreled past her on their way to the top. My girl stood frozen, clinging to a post in wide-eyed terror. She silently crouched down in an attempt to make herself invisible to the flurry of energy buzzing by.

As soon as the coast was clear, she called out with tears streaming down her face. Still crouched in her corner spot, I swooped her up and carried her to a nearby bench. We snuggled for a bit, then I knelt down and peered into her glassy eyes, “Penny, I know that was scary, but you can be brave because Mama will be right here.” Then her little hand squeezed mine as she responded, “Okay, Mama,” just before running off to conquer the swirly green slide once again.

That’s when it hit me: courage is derived from connection.

Loneliness doesn’t lend itself to bravery, but love has always been a catalyst for courage. It’s why a Roman soldier risked his reputation to ask Jesus to heal a servant (Luke 7:1-10). It’s why a group of men tore a hole in the roof of someone else’s property and lowered down their paralyzed friend on a mat (Luke 5:18-26). It’s why Peter walked on water (Matthew 14:22-29). It’s why Jesus gave up his life (Matthew 27:32-56).

Belonging begets bravery.

For the longest time, I didn’t think I belonged anywhere or to anyone. Isn’t that the enemy’s favorite tactic? We are more easily discouraged and defeated when we’re made to feel alone. The power of community is that it infuses courage to show up for the life God has given us, so the enemy knows deterrence begins with isolation.

There’s a woman in the Bible who experienced this dichotomy firsthand. She was a Samaritan, despised by Jews, but more than that, she was ostracized by her own people. Her lack of connection colored the way she walked through the world. John 4:6 tells us she traveled to the community well to get water at noon, which would have been unusual since it’s also the hottest time of day. This was strategic for her, though, since the morning rush meant hushed voices and disapproving glances. She did not belong, and she knew it.

You can imagine her trepidation when a Jewish man named Jesus began to strike up a conversation with her. She knew her reputation around town, and she knew the racial tension that existed between Jews and Samaritans. Surely this would not end well.

Like He always did, Jesus broke down the racial and gender barriers to connection. He painted a picture of belonging, the very thing she needed to unlock a life of freedom. Belonging to the Messiah changed everything for this Samaritan woman. Instead of avoiding community, she ran to it. Instead of shutting others out, she invited them in. Instead of sitting on the side lines, she showed up for her life. Belonging made her brave.

It did the same for me too.

Community isn’t tidy, and I have rarely walked away unscathed, but the courage it gives has shed light on the devil’s lies. Now, as I raise my own daughter, I want her to watch me choose connection over isolation. I want her to see me step toward those who are different than me, to watch me elevate the ostracized, to hear me offer belonging that makes people brave. And because courage is contagious, she’ll show up for people too.

If you can’t have courage without connection, then connection will be my legacy.

 

[bctt tweet=”Courage is derived from connection. #community #belonging #courage -Maggie Johnson:” username=”incourage”]

How to Move Through (Not Stuff Down) Your Anxiety

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I recently felt the familiar rise of anxiety. Tension crawling up the back up my neck. Mind racing. Hands slightly shaky. I couldn’t catch a deep breath no matter how much air I filled my lungs with. I don’t know if you’ve ever had this experience, but it’s like coffee jitters in your heart even when there’s zero caffeine pulsing through your veins.

My mind and spirit were overloaded by deep concern for people I love who were going through really hard things. Things like cancer and chronic illness and job loss and endless unknowns about what tomorrow holds. God gave me very tender wiring. I feel the shock and pain and heartache of others as if it were my own. From the middle of the night when I couldn’t fall back asleep to all the in-between moments of my day, I had been praying for these dear ones. Claiming God’s promises over them. Praising Him for the work He was doing and would yet do.

I was full of faith and hope, yet blanketed in sorrow. It can be both.

Now it was Tuesday evening. My night to write. My husband was taking care of dinner and then treating the boys to dollar ice-cream cones at our favorite local sweetshop. With wet hair and my favorite gray sweater, I was whirling around the house trying to get out the door and make the most of my precious time. Me. Computer. Panera. Stat.

I opened my laptop to eject the flash drive before slipping it into my tote bag when I saw a new email. I clicked. My heart sank. Miscommunication? Misunderstanding? Had I missed the mark or had she? This was a situation without a clear resolution and I instantly felt miserable. My anxiety meter ratcheted up a few more notches. I sat down to compose a response. My mind was a swirl of words and what-ifs, expectations and disappointments. And I still couldn’t shake the underlying angst over my friends who were living big life-changing challenges that put my anxious heart and little work issue into proper diminutive perspective.
“Lord, I just can’t write today,” I whispered. “I just can’t do the work.”

Do you ever feel that way? Like life’s crises and curveballs make the ordinary rhythm of your mom job, career job, your take-care-of-the-home-and-yourself-and-all-the-things job just too much? In that moment I wanted to close the blinds, get a big blanket, curl up on the couch, and watch a movie that would make me bawl. Sometimes that’s exactly what we should do. But this day, I needed to do the work God gave me. I needed to move through (not stuff down) my anxiety.

I needed to acknowledge my feelings, my frustrations, and the weight pressing me from all sides — and then promptly hand it all over to God.

I hit send on the email I had rewritten three times, put my laptop in my bag, and walked over to my couch. I kneeled down. And I poured it all out to the One who holds it all anyway. I named the friends whom I was hurting for. I prayed for the frustrating email, prayed for grace for me and grace for the other person.

In the midst of my praying, I realized my hands were clenched in tight fists. So I made my physical posture a representation of my spiritual surrender.

Fists closed: These things are not mine to hold.
Hands open: I surrender the outcomes to you.
Fists closed: These hurts are not mine to control.
Hands open: You are loving and good, and I entrust it all to you, Lord.

I breathed in with each clenched fist and out with each open palm. It was helpful that I didn’t have children running around, tapping on my shoulder, or asking for a snack. But I have done this kind of breath prayer in a car full of noisy kids and while hiding in the laundry room.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. A rhythmic rehearsing of God’s truth. Inhaling His promises. Exhaling my trust.

My knees started to ache. An injury from high school paired with being thirty-seven is rough. But with the stiffness of my joints came a lightness to my heart. God was with me. He would equip me for the one next thing I needed to do.

 

This is an excerpt from Becky Keife’s book, No Better Mom for the Job: Parenting with Confidence (Even When You Don’t Feel Cut Out for It) published by Bethany House, a division of Baker Publishing Group.

 

[bctt tweet=”Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Let your breath be a rhythmic rehearsing of God’s truth, inhaling His promises. -@beckykeife:” username=”incourage”]

Look for the Goodness All Around You

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Taste and see that the Lord is good.
Psalm 34:8 (CSB)

I’ve been looking for goodness — for that which is sweet, good for the soul, joyful, and light — for God’s goodness in everyday, ordinary places. In a new month of the first new year of a new decade, with days full of possibilities and hope, it only seems right to be on the lookout for good.

What I’ve found is that goodness is everywhere — all around, all the time, in all the places — especially when we’re looking for it.

We just celebrated my niece’s first birthday, where I held my two-month-old nephew and my kids played with my siblings’ kids. Cousins! I see God’s goodness in the snuggles, the cousins growing up together, the late-night texts from my sisters with parenting questions, the pure sweetness of new babies. In a world that still holds cousin playtime, first birthday parties, and that delicious baby smell, there is still good.

I’ve been making soup this winter. When the temperatures dip below zero, it’s time to drag out the stoneware, dutch oven, and slow-cooker. My knife finds a rhythm in slicing vegetables, my ears love the sizzle of browning meat, and my heart gives a leap as I shake seasonings into the pot and suddenly the soup is more than single ingredients standing alone. Add a fresh loaf of crusty-on-the-outside, squishy-on-the-inside bread and a green salad on the side, and dinner on a cold winter’s night is ready. The satisfaction of cooking is a motivator for me, and the joy it brings me to set a nice table and welcome my family around it is palpable. In a world that holds tables to gather around, family to break bread with, and meals to be made, there is still good.

Daily, I dig into my laundry pile. I sort whites and bright colors, add detergent, and swish-swash goes the washer. I vacuum up dog hair fallen from our Christmas morning puppy. I load the dishwasher, unload the dishwasher, and load it up again, full of dishes on which meals and snacks were served and enjoyed. I pick up tiny toys and stack books on shelves and go to the store for shampoo and bananas. I check in with family via texts, keep the calendars up to date (paper for me, electronic for my husband), and place books on hold at the library. I plan meals and turn in my hours for work and collapse into bed at the end of the day, thankful for each task ticked off my to-do list and asking for help to finish the leftovers. In a world that holds housekeeping tasks and teems with minutiae-managing, there is still good.

Once a month I meet with friends for “book club.” We do choose a book, and most of us read most of it. But really we gather for fellowship, to laugh and to cry, to eat cheese and chocolate, sip wine, and laugh together. I use the Voxer app every single day to talk to my best friends who live all over the country. We talk Enneagram and books, marriage and kids, writing and blogging and social strategies, hurts and fears and prayer requests, silly stories and laundry tips. In a world that holds friends and book clubs, there is still good.

I sit at my computer, typing out words and creating emails. I check blog posts, attend video meetings, work with our team to plan out marketing topics. I pray over each word published and emailed. I gather stats and help coordinate details and plot future book launches. This work I’m blessed to do feels like my sweet spot — ministry + business + writing. In a world that holds work that brings deep joy, there is still good.

God, who loves us as much as He did on day one, makes all things work for the good of those who love Him. He thinks of us constantly, more than there are grains of sand. He created the heat of summer, the colors of autumn, the glittering snow of winter, and the newness of life in spring. He went to the grave and back for us, for me and you. In a world overflowing with reminders of God’s love, there is still good.

Walking to school. A thought-provoking sermon at church. Fresh-fallen snow. The width and depth of the ocean and warmth of the sun. The crisp pages of a new, blank journal. A hot latte. A letter from a friend. Daisies growing out of a sidewalk crack. Your children, friends, and family. A verse in Scripture that speaks straight to your heart. Goodness isn’t hard to find, especially when you’re on the lookout.

May you see the goodness of the Lord, right there in your everyday (which is really anything but ordinary).

Tell me, where do you see the goodness of God?

 

[bctt tweet=”Goodness isn’t hard to find, especially when you’re on the lookout. -@annaerendell:” username=”incourage”]

Let’s Honor and Pray for One Another

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We always thank God for all of you, making mention of you constantly in our prayers.
We recall, in the presence of our God and Father, your work produced by faith,
your labor motivated by love, and your endurance inspired by hope in our Lord Jesus Christ.
1 Thessalonians 1:2-3 (CSB)

All of 1 Thessalonians 1 is absolutely beautiful. I read it and get all teary-eyed. Paul writes to this group of believers in the church of Thessalonica. He, Silvanus, and Timothy were welcomed into this group with open arms of gratitude and joy. This group was teachable and humble toward the gospel and receptive to the work of the Holy Spirit.

Paul acknowledges the fruit of their lives and honors them. The definition of honor is to show respect and recognition. It is to give credit. That is what Paul did with each word in this chapter. He makes mention of everything they were doing that blessed him and revealed their love for God. Their work was produced by faith, their labor was motivated by love, and their endurance was inspired by hope in Christ. These believers welcomed the truth of the gospel and endured in spite of persecution.

For me, I have at times wanted leadership in my life to simply see me and encourage me. But God has always seen me; I am always known by Him. And part of His plan for community is for us to give honor where honor is due. Our words have more power than we know. We speak life or death. Our words have the potential to bring hope and healing to weary souls. Giving honor to those around us ultimately honors God.

Further down in the chapter, Paul acknowledges the Thessalonians’ growth and progress in their faith and the impact they’re making on others. Though they once worshiped idols, they were now imitators of God and an example to other believers. Others had seen and been blessed by their progress, but they needed to see it for themselves as well.

One of my friends describes this as calling out the gold in someone’s life. It’s a lovely picture of drawing out purpose and potential instead of staying stuck in the past.

Paul, as someone of influence and authority in this church’s life, spoke of them and to them with such grace and love and encouragement. It made me begin to think about the spheres in my life where God has given me influence and authority. How do I use my words in those spaces? How do you?

One way we can use our words for life is to cover others in prayer. 

Prayer is a game changer. It is what ushers in the Holy Spirit to infuse our words with His power. I love that Paul led his letter with the fact that he thanked God for the Thessalonians and prayed for them constantly. I can encourage others all day and that is good and important, but praying over them is how the Holy Spirit changes their hearts and lives. There is actually a double blessing attached. Prayer changes us too. It changes how we think, feel, speak, and live.

Let’s be women who give honor where honor is due.

Let’s be women who call out the gold in others’ lives.

Let’s be women who faithfully cover others in prayer.

Edited from a post originally written by Karina Allen in October 2017.

How can we pray for you?

Here at (in)courage, one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. Let’s hold space for one another in prayer, so  leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

 

[bctt tweet=”Let’s pray for each other! Join the (in)courage prayer chain on the blog today!” username=”incourage”]

Why I’m Having an Identity Crisis

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Most nights I lay awake in bed rehearsing different conversations I had throughout the day. I worry if I said or did the right thing. I calculate and rethink what I should or could have done. I wonder why someone didn’t text back. I toss and turn making plans to fix things tomorrow.

Most mornings, my mind is running even before I open my eyes. My lists grow. I mentally rummage through the fridge trying to figure out breakfast. The kids fight. Anger comes up and at me from every direction. It’s another day managing a home filled with children and thankless tasks needing to be done. I want to pretend I don’t see my baby who is waving at me from her crib like a frantic New Yorker trying to catch a cab. I want to crawl back under the sheets and hide.

But I swoop up the baby, rush to the restroom, and wash my hands. I glance in the mirror and glance away quickly. Grumbles of disgust drift in and out of my mind. I fumble through my closet and yank anything off the hanger wishing I could get my act together and work out for once. I grab my phone, and beeline straight to the kitchen for coffee. I have to dig through dirty dishes for my favorite mug, and I am frustrated.

With the baby on my hip, hot water in motion, and other children appeased, I start scrolling. What have I missed? Who commented? What are other people doing, wearing, saying? How can I momentarily escape my reality? These quiet questions motivate me to slide my thumb up the screen in search of answers. Pretty lives and pretty feeds move like flash cards before my face, and my annoyance grows with the sound of the kettle blowing, “I’m done already!” Then I hear, “Mom, Mom, MOMMM,” like an unwelcome banging on the door interrupting my mission. I toss my phone down with a groan and lecture my kids about patience and being kind. It’s ironic; I realize that.

My heart is a tangled mess. I slowly implode on myself and explode onto them. My identity so easily goes into crisis mode. I’m in an anxious tizzy to fix and fill myself with anything that will soothe my unsettledness — accomplishments, caffeine, beauty, a fit body, and obedient children. I look to my reflection, closet, mothering skills, or social media to tell me that I’m good enough. When I can’t live up to my standards, shame taunts me, and I come undone.

My identity is relentless to get an answer to the “who am I” question. I’m desperate to be a good enough mom, a faithful enough friend, a spiritual enough pastor’s wife, or a pretty enough woman. The list goes on. There is a deep longing to be okay, liked, and known. When my identity can’t find a resting place, I become restless. My identity can be like a ravenous beast devouring anything that mimics God. But I am never satisfied until I find my satisfaction in Christ.

Our identity will only find peace when we let Christ be what pieces us together.

What binds your heart together? What is that thing that holds your heart muscle in place? Is it being noticed by others, liked by peers, admired by coworkers? Is it your ability to cook, counsel, or create? Are you striving to be perfect? Are you consumed by pride, resentment, envy, or deceit? Is your heart only calm when you have money in your savings account, clean counters, or an organized closet? What are you dependent on for peace? What false identity have you been squeezing to death to give you life?

That thing binding your heart together will in time make it hard for you to breathe. That identity you are working relentlessly to control will in fact control you. When the ties of your heart are stitched tightly around you, release and allow Christ to be the good heart surgeon, delicately slicing and intricately stitching your heart together. He is sewing His identity onto yours. His perfection is now suctioned to you, dissolving your sin.

So receive, cling, and allow Christ to be what binds your heart together. Not beauty, marriage, motherhood, traditions, behavior, abilities, accomplishments, anger, or pride, but only Christ. His love binds your heart into perfect peace. You can rest in this hope alone — that Christ’s love is threading your heart together for His endless good. His love echoes into the deepest recesses of your soul, and all of your not-enoughs are welcome here.

 

[bctt tweet=”Our identity will only find peace when we let Christ be what pieces us together. -Anjuli Paschall:” username=”incourage”]

Stories From Those Who Wander

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Have you ever wrestled in your faith, or struggled with doubt or unbelief? I have. I thought I was the only one, but I was wrong — there are many of us. Thankfully, God’s faithfulness is greater than our questions. His grace is SO amazing, He even has a plan for our doubt. God is for us in our wandering. He’s working all things together for good. God’s word tells us who we are. . . and Whose we are.

Sometimes wandering IS the path that leads you back to God.

– Robin Dance, author of For All Who Wander: Why Knowing God is Better Than Knowing it All

We’ve been hearing about the ways our new book, For All Who Wander, by (in)courage writer Robin Dance, has been impacting the hearts of women everywhere, and we can’t get enough of them. So today, we’re highlighting a few stories from our community! Read on for the ways this book has touched their hearts.

I knew I was going to love this book for many reasons, but I just had no idea how it would truly speak straight to my heart. It was as if Robin and I were sitting with our cup of coffee, and as she spoke through each chapter, she addressed every detail of my life. The ability to do this for me and for each reader is the gift God has given her. Each chapter felt like a conversation because as she ‘spoke’, I was responding with nods, tears, and sometimes even words like the pages could hear me. I tried to savor each page and not rush, but I just couldn’t put it down. Even stories I had heard before had me hanging onto every sentence. Thank you, Robin, for the time, love, and energy you invested to give all of us the freedom to wander and for reminding us that God is for us in our wandering as He works all things together for His good!!
– Courtney 

Chapter Four, “Testimony Envy,” gave me some much needed perspective. Thank you for writing this chapter! I am surrounded by people who grew up in church who all share a similar experience as yours. I, on the other hand, have a polar opposite experience, and my testimony falls somewhere along the lines of ‘those who have been saved from much, love much’. (See Luke 7:47) Whenever I share with lifelong church goers parts of my testimony, I feel like they have a hard time relating, and the enemy uses it to make me feel envious of them and their personal upbringing. I can now see that He uses both sides to shift our focus from God to ourselves, our circumstance etc. This chapter was very eye-opening for me and my personal feelings about both sides/types of testimonies have shifted to what I believe is a healthier outlook. Anytime we take our eyes off of God, we risk the danger of allowing the enemy to deceive us. Loving this book!
– Misty

I am so loving the Journey Guide that goes with the book! The readings and prayers are so perfectly paired with the book. My favorite part though is the resolve section that offers actionable steps to help you apply or remember.
– Dollie

Really appreciated chapter 8 about mountains and valleys, especially the last paragraph: ‘Take heart, Wanderer: mountains and valleys come and go. Where you are today is not where you’ll be forever. Sometimes you need someone to remind you of that.’ Thank God, and Amen.
– Martha

All I can say is WOW! As I read the words, many times it was like someone was writing the words I was thinking in my head! Robin, I am loving this book.
– Lesli

See what we mean? Such wonderful testimonies about the way this book has woven its way into hearts.

In For All Who Wander, you’re invited to find hope and healing in your own story within the pages of Robin’s. She will help you:

  • Abandon the guilt and shame attached to your questions or doubts.
  • Broaden your understanding of God’s grace and faithfulness.
  • Release hostage-holding lies to enable you to embrace your identity, hope, and value in Christ.
  • Reframe your view of difficulties and disappointments as you understand their redemptive and transformative value.
  • Trust that God is working in your wandering to restore and strengthen your faith.

You can now purchase For All Who Wander: Why Knowing God is Better Than Knowing it All wherever books are sold! As you walk through Robin’s story with her in For All Who Wander, you’ll find out for yourself that sometimes wandering is the path that leads you back to God.

Are you in, Wanderer? Get your copy today!

A Man Who Cried When His Friend Died

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I think one of the greatest misconceptions I have about Jesus is remembering He was fully human. I have no problem remembering He’s fully God — the walking on water sort of solidified that for me — but I have trouble believing that during His time on Earth, He felt every bit of human as I do on a regular basis.

Every bit? Every sharp shard of sadness? Every blush of embarrassment? Every rolling wave of grief — some nights so strong I tremble beneath my covers?

The rolling waves have been fiercer lately. Waves of confusion, of grief, and of deep, relentless gratitude. I wake up each morning and, for the most part, think, “I get to have another day here.” I flip open my notebook and jot down what I’m grateful for while my coffee brews — like a blue sky or money to pay my rent or meeting a friend for coffee. I am truly grateful for each day.

It’s not that I’m afraid to die because I’m not. I’m amped to see Jesus face-to-face, to feel the kind of embrace my small mind cannot currently fathom. I am excited to see my friend Tat again. I think because of her and her death, I am more grateful for this life I have been given.

But even in the midst of this genuine gratitude, there is sorrow. Gratitude doesn’t cancel out pain. You can be grateful and still be sad.

I am astonished at how each day I can wake up struck by thanksgiving to be alive in a world so vibrant, and yet simultaneously devastated by the tragedy that seems to arrive to a new person each day.

On Monday as I drove to work, I was overcome by grief for all that is broken in the world. Grey clouds were my company on my hour-long commute. The rain on my windshield were tears I did not have in me to cry. I mourned Tat’s death, but I mourned more than that. I mourned sexual assault and divorce and cancer. I mourned political division and car accidents and broken dreams. I mourned the people who died in Flight 752 weeks ago.

I mourned Tat’s children who will never be born.

I arrived at work, walked into the newsroom, and saw bad news being broadcast on every screen in the building.

And then, I thought of Jesus. Although when Jesus walked on the Earth He didn’t experience the twenty-four-hour news cycle, He saw deep brokenness every day — far more than I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how He could’ve stood it. Every other minute, another person was begging Him to come — to awaken their dead daughter, or touch their blind eyes, or stop the decade of bleeding within them. Jesus wasn’t a journalist, and yet He encountered far more stories of sadness than I will ever encounter.

So I remember Him. I remember Him — not just as the Son of God — but as human Jesus, as Jesus who felt compassion and anger and sadness, as Jesus whose friend died. He knows this sorrow. He knows this pain. He loved someone and then they died. His tears must have felt a lot like mine — hot, burning, and streaming at the most unwelcome times.

If Jesus was fully human, then He knows just how I feel.

The best part of this equation is that He was fully human so He knows how I feel, but He’s fully God so He knows how to comfort.

So now, when I think about Jesus, not only do I think about the God I love, but I think about the Man who understands me.

A Man who felt cold rain on His shoulders when the skies opened.

A Man with skin that scraped when He fell.

A Man who cried when His friend died.

[bctt tweet=”The best part of this equation is that He was fully human so He knows how I feel, but He’s fully God so He knows how to comfort. #death #grief #loss -@alizalatta:” username=”incourage”]

I’ll Sit with You

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We’re sitting in the glow of neon, the golden arches casting pale yellow and red on the wet asphalt where we’re parked.

I’m sipping iced tea even though it’s cold, and we’re clutched by winter’s deep spell, flurries scattering around outside haphazardly lacking the stamina to collect themselves on the ground. The windshield wiper swipes at them randomly streaking the window with frost.

I’ve pulled my hat down low over my unwashed hair, and my arms wrap across me as if my embrace could somehow hold my broken parts together.

The world is quiet and dark, and we sink past midnight as the hours tick by. It’s 3:00 a.m. when she drops me off, and I fiddle for my keys. My home has long since gone to bed, but someone left the light on for me. They knew I would be back late. This isn’t the first time she’s come and gotten me.

I heard her knock, not long after I got her text. I still wasn’t ready. I stood in my pajamas with the front door cracked open, the evening light filtering into my hallway, my body wilting in the cold air as I let her in and she waited for me to pull on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, grab a hat and scoop my greasy limp hair up under it.

I glimpse myself in the mirror, and my skin is creased and blotchy from too many days of tears and a head so full of sorrow. Makeup is pointless.

When we first met, I wore red lipstick and outfits consisting of more than pajamas or yoga pants. I made jokes she laughed at. We used to sit in her living room, grasping tea mugs with our legs tucked up underneath us on her deep couches, leaning in to conversations like girls up past our bedtimes, the kids scattered around playing late into the night as the candles burned down.

We made dates to browse bookstores and grab a bite during happy hour. We went to the French bakery and bought something delightfully flaky that drenched our tongues in butter and sugar.

At the start of our friendship, I showed up and made an effort.

We talked for hours and the words and stories came smoothly. She was bubbly and enthusiastic, a whirl of energy and accomplishments, her extroversion a draw and contrast to my introversion. For being so different we had so much in common. I felt I had something to offer back to her.

I enjoyed who I was when I was with her. I began to believe in friendship again.

And then the despair entered. The deep drag of depression pulled me down. Lulling me with the invitation to stop fighting. To stop trying and just close my eyes, pull my duvet up over my brittle and desperate mind. The darkness invited me to stay there, whispering I am alone and unseen, irreparably broken and useless.

It would be so much easier to just let go of everything since I can’t seem to hold it together anyway. I’ve had to survive it again and again. The cycles that never seem to relent. And I am bloodless and carved out like a carcass set to dust in the desert.

And still she comes and gathers me.

We bypass the living rooms filled with children because some things can’t be said around tender young hearts, things about their mama and how she wishes she could just sleep and never wake up, questions about whether or not she’d hurt herself, confessions about how it’s so hard to hold it together for them and how when they see her breaking apart she wishes they had someone better, someone stronger to mother them, how she thinks they would be better off without a mother who struggles with mental illness.

We bypass tea shops and happy hour because I am unwashed and crowds wither me. I bruise under the guilt of everything I can’t bear.

We end up in the McDonald’s drive-through, ordering iced tea and snagging an empty spot in the parking lot. Evening sinks to night, and everything seems to still as we sit. We watch the night watchman make circles through the empty parking lot, headlights flashing into dark shops, eyeing our parked car with suspicion.

The words don’t come as fast now. I don’t make her laugh anymore. I’m not being a good friend. I can’t offer her fun or interesting.

But still she comes.

She doesn’t rush into the pauses, she sits in the hush and lets me collect my pain, ease it out slowly like a prayer. She asks good questions but doesn’t expect easy answers. She’s gentle and slow, a presence willing to sit in the dark cold night to show she’s with me.

Still she comes.

I didn’t see her hospitality in the tea cups or the comfy couches, the home she keeps decorated and spotless. I don’t see it in the things she does or the ways she serves, although I know it’s there too. I know she does those things with a frenzy of energy and intention.

But I’ve seen lots of people do those things. Maybe for some people it’s easier to check off a list, drop off a casserole, set up the good china, and make a roast. But it’s hard to sit with someone’s pain, let it roll off their slumped shoulders and drag it across yours so you can stand together. And that’s what I needed most.

I see her quiet hospitality in the space she makes, the hollowed and holy quiet.

She reminds me of the gospel when I open the door and slide into the passenger side as wrecked and empty as I am. I see it when she’s willing to sit in the discomfort of being unable to fix me with a meal or an errand or a Bible verse.  I see the gospel when she’s willing to keep coming back to love me through the darkest nights.

I saw Jesus a little more clearly when we were sitting in her minivan at McDonald’s at 3:00 a.m.

 

[bctt tweet=”Living out God’s withness means showing up and sitting with those who are in pain, in the dark. -@aliajoyH:” username=”incourage”]

Unclean but Called Clean

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It is a strange and unsettling thing being a danger to society.

I went for a walk and swooped to avoid a woman walking her dog. I crossed the street when a man came toward me, pushing his toddler on a tricycle. The little girl waved and said, “Hi!” and I stepped even further away. I walked down the center of streets, to keep my body as far from animals as possible.

I felt like I should have shouted, “Unclean! Unclean!”

I had every right to go outside. I’d specifically asked my doctor if it’d be okay and she said yes, then backed away from me in the hospital room to demonstrate how far I would have to be from people and pets — a good eight feet.

Still.

What if I slipped and hit my head and people came to help? What if a dog chased me? What if a school bus dropped off a student, and I didn’t get away quickly enough? What if I saw someone I knew and had to ignore or rebuff them?

At home, I lurked in the basement. My mom delivered food but couldn’t stop and chat. I didn’t want her to stay long in the basement air or near my physical space.

I was unclean.

I have thyroid cancer. My thyroid was removed, and the next step of treatment was to swallow a radioactive iodine pill. The pill, as benign-looking as a Tylenol capsule, came in a lead container. It also came with a medical card to use at airports to explain why I set off alarms with my body. It said I had undergone “recent nuclear medical treatment.”

I sat in a large room so the caregiver could move away after I took the pill. She touched it with a pair of tongs and a gloved hand, dropped the pill right onto my own bare palm, and I swallowed it. I half-expected my skin to tingle or burn for the second it sat there, radiating.

She held out a Geiger counter, and immediately, the dial shot up. It was time for me to leave, I was nuclear.

Before I swallowed the pill, she had given clear instructions for how to live over the next several days: alone. Lots of hand-washing. Lots of water-drinking. Double flush the toilet. Long showers. No people.

And so, after twenty-four hours in the basement, longing for a bit of sunlight, I went for a walk, slow and fatigued, wavering between nauseous and fine, afraid I would damage anyone I encountered, simply by existing.

People with weakened immune systems must be careful about interactions, but they are not the danger. They are in danger. In my situation, for a few days, I was the danger. I wasn’t prepared for how that would make me feel.

I thought about the lepers in the Bible who shouted, “Unclean! Unclean!” I thought about the bleeding woman, and how everything she touched became unclean. She couldn’t eat with people; she couldn’t sleep with people; she probably couldn’t live with people — for years.

I thought about modern day outcasts, from the untouchable caste in India to anyone with a contagious disease, like tuberculosis. They live under the stigma that they are dangerous. Others are afraid to eat with them, live with them, talk with them.

I’d read the stories of lepers and the bleeding woman dozens of times. I’d thought about the relationship between sickness and loneliness, but I’d never considered the shame, guilt, or fear that would come with being the danger, the risk.

I feel the radioactivity leaving my body and imagine a glowing green cloud, infecting everything else. I want to get rid of it, want it off and away, but scratching or clawing at my skin would do nothing to speed the process.

My nuclear danger will slowly lessen, but these others — lepers and the bleeding woman, untouchables and tuberculosis patients — how much more profoundly do they feel a sense of shame or guilt? Through no fault of their own, by no choice or action of their own.

And then Jesus comes along, and He touches them all.

He touches the leper, with their dead skin and damaged limbs, their scarred faces and broken spirits, with their stinking breath and rotten clothes, their body odor and minds that have been damaged by years of isolation and fear.

Jesus touches them.

Jesus touches the bleeding woman, or rather, receives her desperate touch. She has broken protocol, and He welcomes it. He allows her unclean fingertips to grasp the hem of His robe, and He frees Himself to release healing power, not condemnation. Not only is her body healed, but her hope for community is restored, her sense of dignity returned.

With forty-eight hours still to go of my isolation, I think about how Jesus touches the untouchable. He is here with me, in the basement. We’ll spend several days together, just He and I. He’s not afraid. His thyroid can’t be affected by my nuclear medical treatment.

The loneliness associated with disease, the stigma of being at the core unclean, they sink into the soul and become part of the sick person. But they are not the sick person; they do not define them.

In the presence of Jesus, the lie that our identity is rooted in shame is destroyed, and instead, we are called clean.

 

[bctt tweet=”In the presence of Jesus, the lie that our identity is rooted in shame is destroyed, and instead, we are called clean. #healing #cancer -@RachelPiehJones:” username=”incourage”]

When You Can’t Go Back to What Was, Sit Still and Listen

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I lost a little girl once.

When she was ten, she wore knee-length Jams. If you haven’t heard of them, be thankful. They were shorts that came in blinding colors, covered with a confusing assortment of patterns and prints. Her favorite pair was red, covered with yellow skateboards and pink triangles.

She liked to try to make her parents laugh by sticking a grain of rice on her nose at dinner time, while carrying on as if she didn’t know it was there. Her parents tried to cure her lack of care for hair, proper table manners, and socially acceptable style by enrolling her in etiquette class. This girl wrote short stories about alien boogers, loved science experiments and climbing the cottonwood tree in her backyard up onto the roof when no one was home, where she’d pretend the overgrown, gray, wooden garden house in the backyard with its broken pottery pieces and knee-high grass was a magical portal.

She didn’t go missing all at once; the loss was slow and subtle. There were words spoken, moments of realization, and there was an accumulation of feeling like she looked like too much and wasn’t enough. Bit by bit, like a cookie left out on the counter that you promise yourself to only eat a tiny corner of a few too many times, the little girl slowly disappeared until she was all gone.

It took almost half a lifetime before I realized that I not only lost that little girl along the way, but I missed her terribly.

Sometimes grief sneaks up on me, badgering and begging me to listen to its melancholy songs. I try to ignore it, but God gives me these painful songs to remember who I am and who He alone is making and mending me to be.

It has been three months since I fell off of my bike and broke my left wrist. From the first crisp, blue-skied days in October until these cold gray days after the start of a new year, I’ve been on the detour of healing. Healing is all I’ve thought about, and getting back to what was is what I’ve wanted.

Bike riding has always reminded me of joy and spirit of that little girl I lost. I would ride through our neighborhood or on nearby bike trails, a grown woman, giggling with joy. I haven’t been back on my bike yet.

Three months, and what’s felt like a million occupational therapy appointments later, I can grip a slippery pan in my left hand and hold it still enough over the sink to scrub it clean after the kids are in bed. I use both hands when switching the laundry, and I can twist jars open again. Typing no longer hurts like it used to; my fingers can stretch to the farther keys. All of these things feel like small miracles, but what keeps surprising me is the way my wrist will never be quite the same, and how much I miss what it used to be.

Healing isn’t a rewind button.

A good friend told me to make sure I grieve what was, no matter how small a deal it may seem. Everyone wants to hear about how we’ve healed; no one wants to hear our melancholy songs about what was. But when we can’t go back, we must sit still and listen to the sad songs before we move forward. Grief needs space, and I’ve had to acknowledge more than once that though my wrist has healed significantly, it’s not what it was.

After Jesus’ resurrection, He came back with scars. He carried His wounds through the darkness of death and back again through death’s defeat. And it’s by His wounds and the way His hands, feet, and side will never be the same again that we are healed.

We will break, and we will lose much along the way, but because of God’s grace, we will still beautifully become. Maybe it’s not our success or skill, but it’s our shared scars that will help one another remember, grieve, mend, and believe that there’s hope for every lost thing.

 

 

Lament Gives Way to Freedom

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Over one-third of the book of Psalms are filled with psalms of lament, crying out to God to help us. In fact, the word lament connotes raw, honest emotion with no pretense and literally means “to tear the hair and beat the breast.” When you lament you let it all out; you wail from a deep, guttural place.

When I think of lament, I can’t help but think of the people who were the first lamenters, Adam and Eve. Imagine with me for a moment that you’re happy and free, living in a beautiful place with interesting creatures and foods, and each morning you wake up and discover something new. To top it off, you get to spend personal time with God who made you, who created you into existence with His very breath. Life is good.

But then one day, because of one choice, one decision made against what your Father had warned you about, your once innocent, shame-free eyes are opened, and nothing is the same. You and your husband lose everything you know.

Can you hear the wailing from outside the garden?

And just when you thought the awful beginning was over, just as you settled into a new way of life that involved the skin of dead animals, the pain of seeing your husband struggle, the ugliness of weeds surrounding you constantly, the agony of childbirth, the fear of what might hunt you in the middle of the night, your one son murders your other son, and in that act you lose both of them — one to death and one to banishment.

How could you, God? No more, no more! It’s too much, and I am overtaken.

Lament.

Raw. Honest. Prayerful.

There is blessing in lament. Lament frees us to feel and process grief. It could be the grief from the death of a loved one, a baby gone to heaven too soon, the loss of a relationship or the loss of what we should have had from a mom or dad but didn’t get. Or it could be the loss of a dream or life not being what you thought it would be or the loss of something stolen from you, from your body and your soul through a violation.

Whatever it is, God calls us through the many examples of lament in the Scriptures to cry out to Him. He knows that when you cry out, you allow pain to do its work. Remember, God made tears and the ability to wail. Once the lament has worked all the way through, you will have some relief. You will have freedom. And you will even experience joy, even if some of your earthly needs go unmet.

The Scriptures tell us that godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation without regret (2 Corinthians 7:10), that those who mourn will be blessed (Matthew 5:4), that God binds up our wounds and heals our broken hearts (Psalm 147:3), and that the pain won’t last forever. When godly sorrow has done its work as surrender to the Holy Spirit and follow onto that healing path, joy will come (Psalm 30:5).

God can handle your lament, your raw emotion, your fears and doubts and confusion and anger, depression, and plain old sadness. He is a God we can relate to, as He also has feelings and emotions, ones of sadness and anger, grief and lament. We are formed of His breath, and we breathe out the emotions He gave us to use and feel and process and pay attention to.

Lament is a gift. Allowing ourselves to vulnerably acknowledge and face the pain in our lives, big or small, sets us on the path of healing.

When we believe God, when we trust that He has our best interests in mind, that He wants to heal us and help us, guide us and deliver us, that He has redemption in store, we can have the confidence to cry out the stuff that’s under the surface or flailing on top of it screaming to be seen and heard.

That secret you have that you don’t think you can tell anyone about? You can. You can tell it to a safe person because you are safe in Christ and you cannot lose your identity in Him or your place as His beloved daughter.

That miscarriage you had that still locks you up inside, the one everyone thinks you should be over by now? Cry out. Cry out to the God who loves you so much and cries with you and holds your sorrows and keeps your tears in a bottle and records each day of sorrow in His book (Psalm 56:8). He sees you even when others don’t understand. Let Him be your comfort, and if you are willing, tell someone the truth about the lingering pain.

That depression you’re hiding, thinking it will get better? You can tell someone, and you can seek relief — it’s okay. God uses all sorts of ways to help our hearts and our minds and our bodies when they’re sick, whether physically or mentally or emotionally. Here, I’ll go first: I take anxiety medication. I am secure in God’s love for me and that He led me to get help. I praise Him for His gentle leading and kindness toward my fallen brain!

Or how about that affair you’re having or on the verge of having or the fact that you’re toeing the line and you know it, but you think you can handle it? CRY OUT. Cry out to God and be honest that it feels good but it’s so not okay. Cry out to a safe person, someone who will tell you the truth and love you through it all. Shoot, I’m going to go ahead and say, tell your husband! It’s not fun, but the freedom in a clear conscience before God and others is better than any consequence you can imagine.

I could list so many things, but you know your thing, I don’t have to tell you. It’s on the edge of your mind right now. And like I said, big or small, if it’s a thing, cry out and get it out. Don’t let it grow bitter or fester or find other ways of infiltrating your life that aren’t welcome.

And if you’re not sure what is keeping you from freedom, if you know something is going on because you’re so angry or (fill in the blank) but can’t pinpoint it, pray the following prayer and then just sit with it, be curious and alert to what God may be trying to show you, and wait:

Search me, O God, and know my heart!
Try me and know my thoughts!
And see if there be any grievous way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting!
Psalm 139:23-24 (ESV)

 

[bctt tweet=”He is a God we can relate to. -@sarahmae:” username=”incourage”]

Rest for Our Souls

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“Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take up my yoke and learn from me, because I am lowly and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
Matthew 11:28-30 (CSB)

Perhaps your 2020 started off with fireworks and much anticipated excitement for a new year, or perhaps it started off weary from the burdens you carried over from 2019. Maybe you’re feeling overwhelmed by all the things that need to get done or the dreams you want to accomplish or maybe you simply want to find a quiet place to breathe and be still.

This message is for all of us at any time of the year and in whatever season we may find ourselves in: Come and rest, God says. Come and learn from me, and you will find rest for your souls. 

Take a moment to remember our God who calls us to Himself. He is not a taskmaster, demanding more from us. Instead, He is like a mother and a father, who have open arms to their children, whiny and tired. He embraces us with gentleness and care and restores our souls in His presence.

Rest in Him.

 

[bctt tweet=”God is not a taskmaster, demanding more from us. Instead, He is like a mother and a father, who have open arms to their children. Rest in Him.” username=”incourage”]