When the Silencing of Your Schedule Gets Your Attention

When the Silencing of Your Schedule
Gets Your Attention

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In this season of social distancing, self-quarantining, and the silencing of our schedules, maybe the very thing we’ve desired — to hear God speak — is being given to each of us in a manner none of us preferred or saw coming.

One of the things every believer longs for is to hear God’s voice clearly. Is that true of you as it is for me? I struggle with the typical distractions to hear God clearly, but now most of those seem to be muted by a pandemic.

Did you ever hope and pray God would speak to you? Is there a prayer you’ve been praying for a long time and it seems as though God has been silent? Do you wish He would make Himself clear in a certain area of your life?

If we believe God really does work all things together for our good because we love Him, then we can believe God is working through the forced silence of our busy lives.

It’s hard for me to let go of plans, travel, schedules, and times with family and friends. But we have the opportunity to experience the things we’ve longed for and couldn’t figure out how to fit in before.

We can hear God’s voice more clearly because the noises of our daily lives have been silenced.

We have space to think of others besides ourselves. No longer is our excuse of being too busy to help fitting. We can fill up our time with binge watching, or we can use this awkward but precious time to listen to the voice of God.

In our silence, we can be like Samuel and ask God to speak, and then have the capacity to listen.

The silence will not feel normal or even right at first because we are used to loud and distracted lives. For some of us that is all we have ever known. But the silence of entire cities, neighborhoods, and homes is a gift where our prayers to hear from God can finally be answered if we let it.

Let’s not confuse the solitude of our surroundings with the silence of God. God is not silent in the pandemic or our personal situations. What we are facing every day and the impact it has on our lives can be overwhelming to each of us in unique and challenging ways.

But God can use the silencing of our schedules so we can hear Him clearly in our lives. We also now have the space to watch Him move and provide on our behalf.

God has allowed this silence in our lives for a brief season. We have a decision to make as His people: either look for the good in a very difficult situation and listen for His voice wholeheartedly, or try to fill up the silence with what feels most comfortable — the busy noise of the world that does not lead to a close relationship with Jesus.

When this pandemic is over and we are on the other side, I pray we all experience a revived faith and live in the words God speaks to us over the new few weeks and months.

Your silenced schedule can enable your heart to listen and make your life with Jesus better than before.

God, thank you for the silence and the interrupted schedule so we can listen to Your voice. Thank you for getting our attention and bringing our gaze back to You. God, we ask for Your forgiveness for allowing busyness and distraction to get in the way of hearing Your voice in our lives. We are listening now and want to be obedient to whoever You tell us to love. Please stop this pandemic and speak to us. Let us each pay close attention to Your words. Revive our hearts and create worldwide revival through Your words to us. Let us obey You now and once life resumes to a more normal health and pace. We wait for our hope is only in You.

 

[bctt tweet=”Let’s not confuse the solitude of our surroundings with the silence of God. God is not silent in the pandemic or our personal situations. -Stephanie Bryant:” username=”incourage”]

I Just Can’t Anymore

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The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.
Exodus 14:14 (NIV)

Here’s the promise for us today: God will fight for me when I just can’t anymore.

As the social distancing continues, we’re becoming more weary. We were made for human connection through presence, and the lack of it has caused grief and anxiety and anger for the loss of what was supposed to be this year. We pray and plead this will all be over soon, and exhausted, we crawl into bed only to start the same day again in the morning.

The road ahead is long, and when we just can’t anymore, God will fight for us. When we are at the end of our strength, when our prayers come out in groans and tears, when we wonder if we can even make it to the next day, He will sustain us. He will hear our feeble prayers, our angry prayers, our desperate prayers, and He will provide what we need for the day, like manna in the desert.

It’s okay if you just can’t anymore today. There is grace abundant for you, and He WILL fight for you.

 

[bctt tweet=”Here’s the promise for us today: God will fight for me when I just can’t anymore.” username=”incourage”]

What Is the Most Important Thing
You Want to Tell Your People?

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When the medical drama ER aired in the 90s, I had an infant and a two-year-old. I remember lying on our sofa nursing my son — right side, left side, right side, left — through ER, the news and, on occasional late nights, Leno and Letterman. (Being a human pacifier was a small price to pay for a baby who slept through the night.)

Anthony Edwards played the role of Dr. Mark Greene for the show’s first eight years. Wanting to spend more time with his family, he decided to leave, and I read he hoped to “go out in flames” (which took me right back to Top Gun and Goose’s tragic death). Instead, writers gave him the slow burn of terminal brain cancer.

In the episodes leading up to his death, Dr. Greene took his daughter to Hawaii to teach her important life lessons — how to drive, how to surf, and I really don’t recall much else, except his heartrending deathbed counsel. Laboring to speak, his performance was equal parts brutal and beautiful:

I was trying to figure out what I should’ve already told you but never have — something important, something every father should impart to his daughter. I finally got it: generosity. Be generous — with your time, with your love, with your life. Be generous, always.

It wasn’t what I expected him to say, and I found it unsettling. Perhaps the scene struck a nerve because I lost my own mother as a little girl, and there had been no last words or deathbed conversations. Maybe, I just couldn’t go there because I now had babies and couldn’t imagine having to tell them goodbye so young. Regardless, I felt like he should have offered some great spiritual insight, something more. Of course, it was television after all, and the series had no spiritual aspirations. Yet still, as a young parent, I judged his choice of counsel and found it lacking.

Now, many years later, having gained a lot of life experience and hopefully a little wisdom and maturity along the way, I find these dying words of a fictional doctor deeply spiritual.

Be generous with your time, love, and life. Always. Isn’t this what Jesus did (and does) for us?

Our world is so different now than when I saw that episode. We don’t have to endure commercials anymore. Neither do we have to wait for the six or eleven o’clock news. We don’t have to get up to change a channel (Ha!). Most of us have multiple devices through which we can stream entertainment or news 24/7, as opposed to one centrally located desktop computer.

More recently, we find ourselves in a world where we need to keep our distance for health’s sake. Most of us have suffered loss, and for some, a series of painful losses. I imagine we’ve all grown weary. Who could’ve predicted where we’d be today when we ushered in this new decade just a few months ago?

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: The things that matter most have not changed. God is still God — eternal, unchangeable, all-powerful, all-knowing, and ever-present. He is holy, faithful, merciful, gracious, sovereign, righteous, and just. God is love. And, without a doubt, He is generous.

The triumphant message we’ve just celebrated during the Easter season and the perpetually good news of the gospel reveal God’s incomprehensible generosity. In Christ, God has “blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 1:3, emphasis added). 1 John 3:1 says, “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” I love that the NIV uses the word “lavish” because it communicates an extravagant abundance I don’t see in other translations.

When we’re paying attention, it’s easy to see God’s considerable generosity throughout Scripture and in our lives. Sometimes His gifts come as a result of our obedience or surrender, and sometimes they’re simply given in the way a Father loves His children. I absolutely love and appreciate that we get to see God’s most generous act from both the Father and Son’s perspectives:

From John 3:16 (ESV), “For God so loved the world, that He gave his only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.” The sort of sacrificial love God demonstrated in giving His only Son to take my place, to make atonement for my sin, and not just for me, but for all of us who follow Jesus, is unfathomable.

From 1 John 3:16 (ESV), “By this we know love, that He laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers.” Jesus knew what He was signing up for in the incarnation, and He did so willingly. Without hesitation, He gave His life so we could share in eternal life.

In the grandest gesture of generosity, sacrifice, and love the world has ever known, God gave His Son for us, and His Son gave His life for us. 

“Be generous” won’t likely be the last thing I tell my children, but I hope they’ve seen that modeled in our home and that they’ve taken the words that follow 1 John 3:16 to heart. But I do agree with Dr. Greene that it’s important. As we’re maturing in our faith and becoming more like Christ, we’ll naturally become more generous.

During this COVID-19 pandemic of world-wide proportions, the generous spirit of many has been on display. Front-line medical personnel risking their own health and lives, grassroots initiatives of volunteers sewing and giving away masks for those in need, neighbors checking in on neighbors, the Church rising up, united to minister however and wherever they can. Focusing on what we can do helps minimize the anxiety fueled by all the things beyond our control, and that begins with a spirit of generosity.

Will you or I know that our last words to the people we love are going to be our last words? I can’t answer that, but I do believe it’s important to remain current with your people so there’s nothing left unsaid between you. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, so let’s express our love, point others to Jesus, and say those important things we want our people to know now.

What is the last thing/most important thing you’d want to tell the people you love?
How have you seen generosity played out in your community?

 

[bctt tweet=”Focusing on what we can do helps minimize the anxiety fueled by all the things beyond our control, and that begins with a spirit of generosity. -@robindance:” username=”incourage”]

When It’s All Too Much

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Overwhelmed by sadness, I shut my laptop and my eyes. My chest is heavy with grief and fear. Although I planned to hop on Facebook for a few minutes to check on friends and family, my screen quickly filled with news that made my soul ache.

A friend shared a post from a friend whose husband has COVID-19 and is alone fighting for his life in the ICU. His lungs are filled with fluid; his wife is filled with fear.

Another friend shared that her eight-year-old came home from school in tears and asked, “Is my daddy going to get coronavirus because he’s Chinese?” The hate and disproportionate suffering Asian Americans are experiencing makes me furious and sad.

Then I saw a photo of an exhausted woman with tears streaming down her cheeks. A friend shared it, asking for prayer for this young mom who had tested positive for COVID-19. She has asthma and her fear of pneumonia is terrifying but so is going to the ER. If she gets admitted and doesn’t recover, she may never see her children again.

I am overwhelmed with sadness as I read each post, and my heart is now worried about our twenty-two-year-old son, Andrew, who also has asthma. He lives two and a half hours away. What if he gets hospitalized and doesn’t recover? What if we never see him again?

I don’t know what to do. 

I want to be strong enough to stay and sit in the pain with others who are suffering. I want to leave words of encouragement and prayers under each post. But I also want to get in my car and drive as far away as I can until I run out of gas and have to stop. 

When school first closed, we all thought this would only last a month or so. Staying home wasn’t a big deal to me after a year of battling undiagnosed chronic pain and sickness, stretches of anxiety-induced depression, a recent diagnosis of malignant melanoma on the back of my leg, and surgery to remove it.

The melanoma was gone, and I figured out the cause and cure for my chronic pain. Then news of coronavirus and a global pandemic hit.

Within a week our twenty-five-year-old son, Josh, was without work and income due to COVID-19. A few days later, Andrew called to tell us the venue for his May wedding is limiting them to ten guests, due to the new regulations. Suddenly, eighteen months of planning and their wedding-day dreams were being turned upside down.

It’s all too much! 

After reading through social media posts and worrying about my children, I have empathy and anxiety overload. I know God has not abandoned us, but I don’t know what to do with all that’s happening around me and in me.

I put my laptop on the bed and go downstairs to see what my husband is doing. We have a list of home projects that will be a good distraction, but J.J. isn’t where I expect him to be. Instead, he’s outside mowing the lawn.

I stand in the middle of our kitchen, looking out the window, not knowing what to do. I could call a friend or text the kids to see how they’re doing. I could start on our project list. I just want to do something!

I know that avoiding my feelings won’t make them go away, although I wish it would. I want the courage to be sad even when I am afraid I’ll get stuck there. I need to process all these messy thoughts and emotions with God. He knows better than I do what is going on inside my heart and soul. 

It’s all too much for me, but it’s not too much for God.

I walk back upstairs and sit in my favorite chair, open my journal and turn the pages of my Bible toward the back where I find Jesus waiting for me, inviting me to come and stay with Him. 

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” 

“Stay joined to me, and I will stay joined to you.” 

In her book, Stay, my friend Anjuli Paschall describes what this looks like: “The invitation is to crawl up into our Father’s lap, letting His arms wrap us up. We are like tired children at the end of the day, with our worn-out bodies and watery eyes, heads resting on His shoulder, listening as He whispers hope into our cracked hearts, ‘I’ve got you. . . . I love you. . . . I’m not letting you go. I am for you. I am not a checklist or burden or something to get done. I’ve only ever been about being with you.'”

Surrounded by countless concerns and needs we can’t possibly meet, there are days when it’s all too much.

What if, when we are tempted to escape or avoid it all, we stay instead of running away? What if we sat still in the hardest parts of our days and emotions and got quiet with Jesus? Could we listen to our hearts long enough to feel what we feel and let Jesus show us what we need?

God is the only One strong enough to carry the weight of the world on His shoulders. He can handle it all, the sadness and fear, the sorrow and pain. He sees what we can’t, and He reminds us we don’t have to make it all okay. 

How is your heart today, friend? How are you walking through
the times when it feels like it’s all too much?

 

I’m giving away a hardback copy of Stay: Discovering Grace, Freedom, and Wholeness Where You Never Imagined Looking! All the details on how to enter to win are here. Also, be sure to download my new free resource filled with encouraging promises and simple prayers to help you pull away from all that is pulling on you in this season of uncertainty and overwhelming concern.

 

[bctt tweet=”God sees what we can’t, and He reminds us we don’t have to make it all okay. -@ReneeSwope:” username=”incourage”]

If Anxiety Keeps Us Awake at Night

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I will bless the Lord who counsels me—
even at night when my thoughts trouble me.
I always let the Lord guide me.
Because he is at my right hand,
I will not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad
and my whole being rejoices;
my body also rests securely.
Psalm 16:7-9 (CSB)

We say we’re doing fine, and sometimes, we’re busy enough during the day to ignore the anxiety brewing underneath. But when night and quiet come and we lie in bed, the day gets reviewed like a highlight reel of what we didn’t do well. To-do lists loom over us, and every anxious thought yells at us to pay attention, to solve all the problems, and to do it right now.

It seems as though we can’t find any refuge at the end of a long day, but the psalmist reminds us that God is our refuge. He is our counselor, the One who can guide us to peace and give us peace. When stress gives our bodies no rest, we can turn to God who is our anchor when everything is out of our control.

Ask Him for His counsel, breathe in His peace, open your hands to surrender and trust, and rest deeply.

 

[bctt tweet=”God is our counselor, the One who can guide us to peace and give us peace. ” username=”incourage”]

Loving the Hard-Hearted Family Member

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This grown woman was hard as rock — an adult mean girl. Rude and disrespectful, hurtful and heartbreaking, her actions were made worse because of her target – her own mother. “She yells at her,” my friend said. “Her mom has Alzheimer’s, and when the mom forgets things or does something ‘wrong,’ her daughter just lets her have it, putting her down, screaming at her.” My friend then got quiet. “It breaks my heart.”

I listened, knowing one way to describe what she was witnessing – elder abuse, which depending on how far it goes can be ruled not just emotional assault but a crime. Yet such abuse isn’t the focus of this post.

Instead, I want to shine light on the hardened daughter’s heart issue: she is, sadly, a bully. Also, clearly, she is hurting. A lot of families have hurting bullies, and what do they need most? They need love.

Just ask King David. Yes, you probably already know his story.

David’s home life was something of a wreck. First came that mess with Bathsheba. Later, his son Amnon raped his half-sister Tamar, then disgraced her by rejecting her.

Then, enter Absalom. While taking the damaged Tamar into his home as a safeguard, he waited for his father David to rebuke Amnon. Instead, David did nothing, enraging Absalom, who took matters into his own hands – ordering his solders to kill Amnon, which they did.

Blood on his hands, Absalom still wasn’t satisfied. He cooked up a plot to take over David’s kingship, which didn’t end well, not for Absalom anyway. Later, when David was aging and weak, another son Adonijah also rebelled, but Solomon, as king, had Adonijah killed, securing his own reign.

Talk about family drama. David mourned it all, sobbing after Absalom’s death, “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!”

But despite it all, David still loved his boy. And most families, indeed, still love their rebels, even the bullies.

Thus, what did David do? He prayed. And his prayer – as Absalom pursued him – offers an intriguing approach to handling family tugs of war, especially now during the angst of the ongoing virus battle, but also all year long.

Thus, David didn’t pray for a quick fix. Or, for a change of heart in his son. Instead, David did what any troubled kin member should do. He turned to his first love – his Hope, His help, our God. As David wrote:

I wait quietly before God, for my victory comes from him. He alone is my rock and salvation,
my fortress where I will never be shaken.
Psalm 62:1-2 (NLT)

David didn’t hurl up words about his maddening son. He also didn’t tussle with Absalom. He didn’t growl at the dinner table, argue politics, debate medical tactics, or trade barbs, toss out put downs, or stir up a shouting match.

Instead, for better or worse, David kept his focus on the Lord, reminding himself:

Yes, my soul, find rest in God;
my hope comes from him.
Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
he is my mighty rock, my refuge.
Trust in him at all times, you people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.
Psalm 62:5-8 (NLT)

David put it this way in Psalm 63, “I lie awake thinking of you, meditating on you through the night. Because you are my helper, I sing for joy in the shadow of your wings” (v. 6-7). Declaring trust in God, David reminds us to focus our perspective on the One whose “strong right hand holds me securely” (v. 8).

While we hold on, we continue to pray for our family members – for all in our kin circle, whether estranged or easygoing, agreeable or hard-edged.

First, run to God. Yes, rest in Him. Indeed, hold onto Him. Then hang on as if life, and your family, depend on Him – because they do.

Thus, for your hardest family members, ask the Lord to bless them, to be awakened to His grace, mercy, love, power – and sweetness. Then, as you lay down your hurts or fears concerning your loved one at Jesus’ feet, remember this: leave them with Him.

 

[bctt tweet=”When we have bullies in our families, we must turn to our first love – our Hope, our help, our God. -@PatriciaRaybon:” username=”incourage”]

Finding Safe Spaces in the Midst of Racism

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It was just another day on Twitter. My feed, once populated with discussions on publishing, theology, and the upcoming election, was nothing but a dead scroll of COVID-19 updates. The rising confirmed cases. Celebrities who had contracted the virus. How to stay sane while quarantined. Some of the things I read were helpful. But other spaces of the Twitter-verse are filled with recurring racist attacks, and every time something new happened, somebody took it upon themselves to tell me and my friends to “go home” and that we, as Asians, need to own our complicity somehow.

Anti-Asian racism has been escalating in our country over the past few months, and with each passing day I have started to feel the visceral weight of it in my body. I’m fatigued. I find myself randomly in tears or wanting to pick a fight. Sometimes, I’ll wake up with my stomach twisted in a knot and the dull pain persists throughout the day. It’s the weighty burden of being an Asian American right now — a reality in which we must navigate the fears and threats surrounding the coronavirus while also being doubly scared for the contagion of racism that has ensued. This is my current reality.

And while some days I pursue activism and stand up for my fellow Asian brothers and sisters, other days I retreat. I make sure to get good sleep and play with my kids. I sneak away to my bedroom to read my Bible and pray. I talk on the phone with friends and hug my husband a little bit tighter. Having safe spaces like these to rest and heal is just as important as the activism.

Each of us have endured traumatic histories in our own way, and the racism that the coronavirus has stirred up is a reminder that many of us experience regular — even daily — assaults to our dignity. Whether you’ve been watching these horrors play out on social media or experiencing them personally, we all need to have safe spaces to retreat — spaces where we can step away, acknowledge and process the pains of racism, and find paths toward healing and resilience.

This is the model we see in Scripture. Time and again, men and women in both the Old and New Testament step away to find a safe place from the threats against their lives. Think of David and the many times he had to flee for his life from King Saul. Notably, he found solace in caves and remote spaces outside of the city. Think also of Elijah fleeing from Jezebel into the wilderness. He felt like he was completely alone and the whole world was against him, but it was also in the wilderness where God meets him. Jesus too stepped away, not just to get away from the masses but to also flee verbal and physical threats. Think of His night in the Garden of Gethsemane. He pulled away to meet with God. He knew He was about to enter a fire storm, so He sought His Father’s face for comfort.

There are many reasons why we need a physical space for retreat. We need them for our own physical, spiritual, and emotional safety. We need them so we can seek out God. Whether that’s our home, our bedroom, the park, or a nature trail, we need to know which spaces we can retreat to with the assurance of Matthew 1:23 that “God is with us” and that He will meet us in these places. These are spaces where we can find holistic rest – for us to close our eyes, go for a run, take care of our bodies, pull out a journal and reflect on our experiences, read our Bible and pray. It’s where we not only acknowledge the realities in our life but also lay them at Christ’s feet and cast our cares upon Him. When we step away from the threats and pains of this world, we can pray that God will comfort our broken hearts and heal and bind up our wounds as it says in Psalm 147:3.

When you’ve found that place to retreat, spend time asking yourself: What has been happening this week? What have I seen and heard? How has racism personally impacted me this week? How has it impacted my friends and community? How am I feeling right now? And what are good practices for soul care this week?

Write about it. Pray about it.  It’s okay that some of these answers will sting. It’s okay to let the hurt in. We need to make space to verbally process the realities of racism and its impact on us. But, sister, know that God sees you and He doesn’t want you to carry the burden of racial oppression alone. Lay it at His feet, and believe that when you pray, “Lord, heal me,” He will begin a process of healing within you.

 

[bctt tweet=”Know that God sees you and He doesn’t want you to carry the burden of racial oppression alone. -@drmichellereyes:” username=”incourage”]

This Is for You, One-of-a-Kind Mom

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We are the moms who hug, dance, and snuggle. We are the moms who get overwhelmed, whose snarls sometimes come easier than our smiles. We are the moms who live in the push-pull of exhaustion and joy, in the tumultuous world of feelings and guilt and giving all of ourselves.

We are the moms who pray our children will fly while a tiny part of our heart grieves their flight from us, because we are the moms who love those children with every fiber of our being. We’re not sure where they end and we begin, but we know we didn’t begin until they arrived.

We are the moms who work around the clock in a million different ways. Praying. Cooking. Cleaning up. Carpooling to school and dropping off at daycare. Guiding. Loving, always loving. Scolding and worrying. Kissing boo-boos and wiping tears. Breathing deep, in and out, over and over. Chasing their feet and their hearts. Answering emails in the middle of the night. Pulling them back and drawing them in and sending them out. Scrubbing toilets and remembering details and packing lunches and signing papers and pouring out.

We are the moms who love children we didn’t birth. We are the neighbors, aunties, sisters, friends, and church grandmas who love these kids as though they’re our own. We snuggle up during the sermon at church to beloved little ones and pass them hard candies to squelch the wiggles. We attend birthday parties and graduations and weddings, bearing gifts for these dear hearts, setting up tables and making food and then cleaning up at the end of the day. We rock little babies and help big kids pack for college, tearing up at the thought of them driving away. We light up when our phone dings and it’s a text from that precious high-schooler. We read stories and sing songs and carefully choose cards to pop in the mail for every holiday.

We are the moms who run on grace and caffeine. Who build a meal off of the scraps pilfered from kids’ plates. Who go through more coffee shop drive-throughs than we care to admit. Who are exhausted from being “on” all day at work, and coming home to be “on” all night. We drive through McDonald’s for milk because we’re out at home and just cannot drag ourselves into the actual grocery store. Who pay for a latte in change dug out from between the minivan seats. Who cannot make it to church without bickering with our family on the drive. Who are consistently seven minutes late to every appointment. Who perpetually lose socks to the washing machine, and have been known to purchase new underwear instead of washing the pairs we already own. Who take our alone time seriously and guard it fiercely— just like we do our kids.

We are the moms who long for more. More grace. More patience. More coffee. More time (always more time). More space—in home and heart. More money. More sleep. More Christ in us. More life in our days. More quiet.

At the same time, we are the moms who long for less. Less laundry. Less fighting. Less yelling. Less clutter. Less selfishness. Less guilt. Less busy. Less stuff. Less dust. Less hustle.

We are the moms who sit in the hallway in tears during bedtime, drained. The moms who sit in empty houses in tears because there are no more babies to tuck in at bedtime. We are the moms who ache for those we’ve lost, for those we’ve wanted, for those we’ve asked for, for those whom we’ve begged God about and bruised our knees in earnest prayer. For the babies we couldn’t carry. For the children we’ve lost to heaven and red tape. For the grown children we couldn’t hold on to as they flew our coop to make their lives. For way-wards and prodigals and could’ve-beens.

We love this life even when we don’t like it very much. We love these kids with all of our being — even when we may not like them very much.

We thank God for the gift of love He gives in the form of sticky hands, flown coops, late nights, early mornings, cards in the mail, texts sent, calls placed, and prayers whispered.

We are these moms, and this book is for us all. May you find yourself and someone you love amidst these pages. May you be inspired, uplifted, refreshed, and renewed to go forth and love those kids. This book is for you, one-of-a-kind mom!

This is an excerpt from the introduction of A Mother’s Love by Anna Rendell.

You can now purchase A Mother’s Love: Celebrating Every Kind of Mom wherever books are sold! We know these days are full of the unknown, often worry, and sometimes fear. Send a copy to a friend as a blessing in what could be a dreary day, and keep another copy to page through yourself when you need to take a moment to recenter and encourage your heart.

A Mother’s Love is filled with stories from the (in)courage community, brief devotions, Scripture, beautiful artwork, lined pages for your reflection, and Biblical encouragement. It’s sure to help any daughter give a tangible expression of love to her mom, and allow any woman to share a meaningful gift with a mother-figure who has been impactful in her life, a new mom in her circle of friends, or a close loved one facing the joys and challenges of motherhood.

Let’s celebrate all the mother-figures in our lives. Get your copy of A Mother’s Love today!

 

[bctt tweet=”We are the moms who live in the push-pull of exhaustion and joy, in the tumultuous world of feelings and guilt and giving all of ourselves. – @annaerendell in #amotherslovebook: ” username=”incourage”]

We Are Not Without Help

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

Here’s the promise for today: God will help me in my time of need.

The smallest, simplest of prayers we can pray right now is Help, God. Our cry for help doesn’t fall on deaf ears and a hardened heart. It falls in front of the gentle presence of God, who aches and grieves with us. Just as He answered the Israelites’ cries for deliverance, help, and provision, He is the same now as He was then. God wants to meet us in our time of need, so let’s come to Him daily asking for help because He is sure to answer.

 

[bctt tweet=”Here’s the promise for today: God will help me in my time of need. #promiseoverpanic” username=”incourage”]

Peace in the Midst of the Storm

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I thought I was fine.

Sure, the whole world seems to have turned upside down on itself over the past month. And yes, having four kids home all day, every day, while two grown-ups try to work and manage homework isn’t ideal. And, yes, I’ve been a little under the weather — likely a random virus, nothing serious. But I’m holed up at home to be on the safe side.

I was fine, totally fine. So I thought.

And then after a long day of work and another hour making a home-cooked dinner, one unnamed thirteen-year-old made one too many critical comments, and I went from okay to out-of-control.

So maybe I’m not so fine after all.

Life has been hard lately with very little rest and recovery. There’s lots of tension and anxiety and chaos. Adults who struggle to physically get all the things done in a twenty-four-hour day are being followed by children who gripe and complain because they have no understanding of all that hangs in the balance. And then there’s the unrelenting news and ever-changing realities, none of which last long enough for any of us to find some solid ground and get our footing.

We’re like too many passengers, crammed into a too-small dingy, thrust out into the wide-open sea and then caught in a furious and terrifying storm:

One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out.
As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped,
and they were in great danger. The disciples went and woke him, saying,
“Master, Master, we’re going to drown!”
Luke 8:22-24 (NIV)

I understand the disciples’ panic, their ability to go from okay to out-of-control in the span of seconds. My squall may not come in the form of rain and wind, but it’s just as terrifying, just as damaging. And more often than I want to admit, I’m the source of its sting — in my impatient responses and curt replies, my critical remarks and unforgiveness. When the tension and anxiety and chaos rise, my peace and self-control go down.

And you want to know something else? The funny thing about tension and anxiety and chaos is that the first things we often let go of are the things we need the most:

Quiet
Prayer
Meditation
Bible reading
Solitude

It seems there isn’t time for it, not enough energy for it.

A few days ago, I realized once again how insecure, irritable, and overwhelmed I felt. It wasn’t so much about world events, moody teenagers, and this cold I can’t shake. It was more about where I was putting my focus in the middle of it all.

I was so caught up in the chaos of the storm I forgot that Jesus was in my boat. And if I wanted to find a way to stay afloat, I needed to remember the only One who could offer me true peace.

So today’s agenda?

Inner quiet (because my house will be anything but quiet)
Prayer
Scripture
Meditation
Thoughtfulness
Rest

“Where is your faith?” He asked the disciples (vs. 25). He asks the same of you and me.

And for today, I remember that although my world rocks and the wind roars, my faith is with Jesus. He sits in my boat, even while the storm grows. That means my Peace is with me, right here, right now, no matter what comes.

 

[bctt tweet=”Our Peace is with us, right here, right now, no matter what comes. -@MicheleCushatt:” username=”incourage”]

Let’s Stop Telling Each Other How to Grieve

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I’m not sure if I screamed or cried out, but something I did brought my mom rushing to my room as I stared blankly at the cordless phone in my hand. My brain and my heart weren’t processing the news I’d just received, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. I had just learned that my friend, the one I’d seen in my dorm room just hours before, was dead.

Now that I’m a mom — and a couple decades older — I can only imagine what my mom thought in that moment. But as I sat in shock, in grief, I knew that she would certainly know what to do next.

And she did. It just wasn’t what I wanted to do, as it turns out. In hindsight, I realize that day was when I began learning that everyone grieves differently.

The blur of that weekend has erased my thought process and my intentions, so I don’t know what I actually wanted to do after my friend died. But I know what I did not want to do and that was to help my mom cook and clean. At nineteen years old, I didn’t understand the logistics involved in opening our home to my college friends who were driving down for the funeral. Pragmatic as I find myself now, as a wife and mom, as a doer and a fixer, casseroles and clean towels simply did not seem important in the face of crying and talking and hugging and sleeping.

I also didn’t understand that people grieve in different ways. Weeping might be the obvious reaction to tragedy, but it’s certainly not the only reaction.

Somehow, that week made room for both reactions — and what I understand now is that both were legitimate (and necessary) ways to respond to grief. Turning to tangible tasks and making the practical a priority doesn’t mean a person is not devastated; it just means she’s grieving differently than the one who can’t stop crying and only wants to take another nap.

Some of us kick into high gear when disaster strikes, baking bread and planning services. Some of us make outlandish comments or outrageous decisions in the heat of the moment. Some of us lay down on the floor or on the bed, determined to never rise again. Some of us start committees or organizations; some of us write letters and sign petitions; and some of us move on like nothing happened, acting as if we’re fine, everything’s fine, it’s JUST FINE.

Some of us find ourselves screaming, “Why?” at the cemetery, only to dissolve into laughter a few minutes later when our friend Clairee suggests hitting Ouiser Boudreaux as a way to channel our anger. (That’s Steel Magnolias I’m talking about, in case you don’t know.)

When our hearts break, when our lives fall apart, when the world seems to be burning, none of us knows what to do next — and then we just do whatever we need to do. We grieve the way we were taught or the way that makes it stop hurting for a minute or two. We grieve the way we grieve, whether that makes sense to anyone else or not.

Grief seems to be the common denominator of these times. Whether it’s personal or global, recent or ancient, we all seem to be grieving the loss of someone, of something. And while our suffering unites us, our methods of reacting and processing and coping sometimes divide us. It’s just one more way expectations trip us up, when we assume others will need what we need and do what we do. In an effort to reassure ourselves that our own reactions are right, we decide that everyone else must fall in line behind us.

But we’re just not wired that way. Each one of us was created unique, and our diversity in experience and personality mean that even when we’re grieving for the same reason, we won’t necessarily go about it the same way.

And that’s okay.

All of this seems harder while we’re isolated and alone, often feeling our emotions escalate in the face of fear and uncertainty. Seizing the moment and choosing joy feel impossible to many of us when grief is in the mix, and our gratitude and positive outlooks feel forced at best and completely false at worst. Then again, leaning into extra family time, finally finishing that project or that book, and getting back to the basics of board games and baking projects might be just the reprieve someone else needs to get through this difficult season. Neither response is the right or wrong way to handle things. Neither one is better or worse, proof of a person’s level of grief (as if that’s a thing that can be measured).

No, see, we all break differently. We all grieve differently. And we all take those differences with us into the most challenging of seasons.

Maybe this year is the moment we can finally remember that, accept that, even embrace that. Maybe we can erase phrases like “moving on” from our vocabulary. Maybe we can remember that a bright smile doesn’t necessarily mean a heart’s no longer broken. Maybe, no matter what or how our loved ones (or we) are missing or resenting or processing or handling what’s going on right now, we can offer grace or the benefit of the doubt or the simple understanding that not one of us is exactly the same.

Maybe we can stop telling each other how to grieve.

 

[bctt tweet=”Each one of us was created unique, so even when we’re grieving for the same reason, we won’t necessarily go about it the same way. And that’s okay. -@marycarver:” username=”incourage”]

Our Hope for This Easter

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Mary was standing outside the tomb crying, and as she wept, she stooped and looked in. She saw two white-robed angels, one sitting at the head and the other at the foot of the place where the body of Jesus had been lying. “Dear woman, why are you crying?” the angels asked her. “Because they have taken my Lord,” she replied, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 

She turned to leave and saw someone standing there. It was Jesus, but she didn’t recognize him. “Dear woman, why are you crying?” Jesus asked her. “Who are you looking for?” She thought he was the gardener. “Sir,” she said, “if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will go and get him.”

“Mary!” Jesus said. She turned to him and cried out, “Rabboni!” (which is Hebrew for “Teacher”).

“Don’t cling to me, “ Jesus said, “for I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. But go find my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene found the disciples and told them, “I have seen the Lord!” Then she gave them his message.
John 20:11-18 (NLT)

We celebrate this Jesus — the One who conquered death and rose again, the One who sees us and calls us by name, the One who meets us in our grief and hopelessness.

He is risen.
He is life.
He is with us.

Our message to others today is the same as Mary’s then: we have seen the Lord! May this bring comfort to our lives and may the power of the resurrection be evident in our lives, even now. Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Happy Easter!

 

[bctt tweet=”We link arms with you this Easter as we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Because He lives, we have hope. ” username=”incourage”]

Love Audaciously During This Crisis

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The weight of disappointment demanded my attention. I could feel panic encroaching, threatening to crowd out my peace. When I was a child, my mom used to say that I was highly perceptive. Now, some friends describe me as highly sensitive or as an empath. However you call it, I have the tendency to feel as though I am living through the pain and loss of a tragic event even though it’s thousands of miles away —  Hurricane Katrina, 9/11, mass shootings, refugee crises, to name a few.

I remember during the aftermath of 9/11, I attended a prayer vigil. I was so overcome by our collective grief that I began loudly sobbing and wailing. I’m sure everyone thought I must have known someone who died in the attack, but I did not.

Following Hurricane Katrina, I had to turn off the news reports. Even though I personally knew no one impacted by this tragedy, the collective injury and trauma clung to my body.

But this time is different. Beyond trauma and sorrow, I began to feel a twinge of panic. I wondered if we, the United States, understood that we are not a force of exceptional individuals, immune to the rest of the world. The traditional American narrative does not portray us as a part of the world’s body but as a whole entity unto ourselves. We believe we are a superpower. So I wondered if we would know how to move humbly in alignment, as one with the rest of the world in order, to do what humanity needed.

Initially, I heard more concern for the life of the stock market than for the lives of people. I witnessed leaders expressing frustration and hesitation when they needed to act, without haste, in the best interest of the countless people in their charge. I heard a young executive say, “The coronavirus only kills old people and people with compromised immune systems, so I don’t need to worry about it. People are overreacting!”

I wondered if this young executive had grandparents. And if so, had he considered them as he championed for inaction? I wondered if he even knew which of his friends had respiratory issues. And to make matters worse, overt and pronounced anti-Asian sentiment had become the accepted conduit for advancing political and social agendas. One of my students of Asian descent told me that his family is more afraid of the anti-Asian racism than they are of catching the virus.

But as the impact of the virus pressed into our reality, I witnessed movement that snuffed out the flicker of panic threatening to engulf me. My twelve-year-old nephew had a heart-to-heart chat with his grandmother, my mom. He told her that because her husband is in the older, at-risk age group, she needed to take a break from her job where she came into contact with lots of people. He didn’t want his grandma exposing his grandpa to danger. The twelve-year-old audaciously acted on behalf of his eighty-two-year-old grandpa, and joy flooded my soul! So much so that I burst out laughing!

There is hope!

Jesus, resurrected and in conversation with Peter, emphasized the significance of taking care of His sheep (John 21:15-17). Three times, Jesus related Peter’s love for Him with providing and caring for His sheep. Sheep are vulnerable. They represent those who are susceptible to being overlooked, wounded, exploited, or erased. Sheep need someone to care for them, to see them, to protect them. Sheep need a shepherd — a Jesus, a Peter, a twelve-year-old audacious grandson.

Often times, as followers of Jesus, we view ourselves as “His sheep” only, and yes, each of us are like vulnerable sheep at some point in our lives. But I am realizing that there are many times I choose to act as a sheep, when in reality, I have the privilege, potential, and power to serve as a Jesus or a Peter. I am learning to reconcile how my love for Jesus positions me to see and value the marginalized — those pushed to the edges of society. I am striving to accept the Shepherd’s mandate — to see, love, and protect those who society deems disposable.

It is an honor to love Jesus, and it is a privilege to take care of His sheep.

May this crisis be fertile ground to grow our capacity to love audaciously. May we allow the One who liberated Jesus from the grips of death to free us from our fear-imposed limits. May our love for Jesus posture us to cultivate a community where we thrive as one. 

Amen.

 

[bctt tweet=”May this crisis be fertile ground to grow our capacity to love audaciously. #covid_19 #community #loveoverall -Lucretia Berry (@brownicity):” username=”incourage”]

Redeemed, Forgiven, and Free

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On Good Friday I went to Catholic Mass. It was early April, the kind of day that is damp and heavy. No matter the year, on Good Friday I can’t help but think: Jesus is going to die today. The morning of mourning consistently makes that truth feel fresh once again — a gaping wound ripped wide open. Soon, love would gush down the side of a wooden cross, declaring me whole, declaring me free. The Savior of the world would be deep in the midst of saving me.

I attended by myself. It was me, Jesus, and a few hundred other people. I had been to a Catholic Mass a handful of times before, but not to that specific cathedral. It was beautiful and huge, sweeping across the city. It seemed as though anyone in the world could look up and see the steeple.

The stained glass mesmerized me. I wished I had arrived earlier, if only to be able to study them closer. I sat and fiddled with my fingertips instead. There was a kneeler in front of me. How many knees had bent there? How many prayers had been uttered? It was immediately reverent, and I felt a lightness sway inside my chest.

Halfway through the service, a few men started to carry a large wooden cross down the middle aisle. They set it down gently, sturdily at the front. One by one, the hundred people stood from their pews and made their way to the cross. They knelt before it, and I watched as they placed their lips to the wooden base. I watched them kiss the cross.

I started to cry then, because I knew — I knew — I wouldn’t be able to. I could never kiss the cross. My muscles screamed at me to get up and go, to stand in the line and press my lips against the cross of Jesus. But I willed my body to stay in the suddenly small pew, which seemed to be shrinking beneath me. My tears increased as they wove their way down my cheeks, and I felt envious of the people around me who didn’t feel ashamed, who were able to get up and kiss the cross of their Savior. I looked down at my lap. Forgive me for my shame.

The shame engulfed me. I thought maybe I’d drown beneath the weight of it. I thought, “My shame is taking over me.” I was fearful, desperately so. Fearful that I was Peter, fearful that I was Judas, fearful that I would deny Him, or betray Him, or refuse to kiss the foot of His cross.

Oh, Jesus, forgive me for my shame.

The adulteress in John 8:1-11 came to mind. That’s who she’s known as: the adulteress. Can you imagine if that’s how you were known? For your deepest, most shameful act? I can hardly bear the thought.

Jesus was teaching when the adulterous woman was brought to Him, which means He would have been surrounded by people. Not only was she labeled for her sin, but she was also being called out on it in front of many people.

The Pharisees threw her in front of Jesus. I can’t imagine that they were gentle with her, certainly not regarding her as someone precious or loved.

The Pharisees were a tricky group, always wanting to force Jesus into a catch-22. “This woman was caught in the act of committing adultery,” they continued. “In the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?” (John 8:4-5).

I picture the woman standing there in front of Jesus, tears coursing down her face — the shame surrounding her, defining her identity, deciding her destiny.

Jesus did not look at her. Instead He stooped down and began to write something on the ground below Him. The Pharisees, of course, wouldn’t give up. They continued to pester Him, until Jesus stood and said, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her” (v. 7). Then He bent down again, continuing to write on the ground.

I wish I had seen the faces of the people who stood there after Jesus said this. What did the Pharisees say? What did the crowd think? But more than all of this, how did the woman — the one who had been shamed, ridiculed, and called an adulteress — feel?
One by one, the people left. No one could throw a stone, because no one was without sin. Eventually, Jesus stood. He and the woman were the only ones left. “Woman, where are they?” He asked her. “Has no one condemned you?” (v. 10).

I wonder if she brushed her tears away with the back of her hand. “No one, Lord,” she answered (v. 11).

Jesus looked at her and said the words that must have changed the entirety of her life. “Neither do I condemn you,” said Jesus. “Go, and from now on do not sin anymore” (v. 11).

I never kissed the cross that Good Friday. There was too much shame inside of me. I can’t kiss the cross. There are too many things I have done, too many lies I have told, too many times I have abandoned You.

But Jesus.

He would stand up. We would be the only ones left. “Where are they?” He would ask me. “Has no one condemned you?”
“No one, Lord,” I could answer.

I could look into His eyes — His eyes filled with goodness, reminding me who I am: someone who is precious and loved. “Neither do I condemn you,” Jesus would tell me. “Go, and from now on do not sin anymore.”

This post was written by Aliza Latta and originally appeared in the (in)courage Devotional Bible.

 

[bctt tweet=”On this Good Friday, may we remember the God who entered darkness to bring us into light. He is God with us. ” username=”incourage”]

Who Can Help Ease the Changes We Face

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When we were stationed in Hawaii, I homeschooled for one very, very, very long year. Let’s just say it wasn’t a raving success because I let distractions interfere as much as my kids. This proved especially true with those subjects I didn’t really like — namely, anything involving the left side of my brain.

One thing said more than once by my actual 2008 self to my three young children was, “Hey, y’all, let’s go to the beach and count sea turtles and call it math!” Not surprisingly, my kids were happy to oblige.

But since Jesus loves me, He gifted me with a good local friend on the island who was also a tried-and-true homeschooling mama. She shared her homeschooling smarts and relaxed, yet productive, ways with me, and lo and behold, the kids and I miraculously made it through the curriculum that year.

At that time, I may have been new to homeschooling, but I was an old hat at being a military wife.

Yesterday, a friend and military wife posted something on Facebook along the lines of, “Welcome to the world of having the government ruin your plans.” While the parallel to this current COVID-19 crisis isn’t perfect, military folks are just some of the people who know what it’s like to have their plans derailed with little notice. After all, many a military family has felt the whiplash reality of thinking and preparing they’re moving to one place and finding out last minute they’re moving somewhere else. Or that they’re not moving at all because their military member is deploying. Or maybe they already moved, say, to the East Coast, but all their household goods were inexplicably transported to the West Coast.

In some ways, the world at large is getting a taste of what our military friends have already experienced.

In some ways, those parents overseeing their kids’ remaining school year at home are getting a taste of what our tried-and-true homeschooling friends have already experienced.

A well-known quote by Mr. Rogers says that when the news gets scary, we should look for the helpers. While this COVID-19 crisis is in one way or another new to all of us, some folks have spent a portion of their lives dealing with certain ripple effects it has caused.

Today, I see military families and homeschooling families as two kinds of helpers. If that’s you, might you share a little of what you do to make your world — and this world we find ourselves in these days — spin a little more smoothly within the context of your own personal experiences?

My eyes are always scanning the horizon for ways you and I can see our specific season through the filter of God’s care and provision. I love to write stories — specifically about change — that help you make sense of your own and help you see where you are with more hope and less worry.

In light of this and my history as a military wife, I offer you this bit of encouragement within the context of this verse from Acts:

From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live.
Acts 17:26 (NIV)

Military families accept that God chooses their location, not Uncle Sam. But all of us, regardless of how often we’ve physically moved locations, are living in a new location of sorts right now. It’s also good to remember the Lord has determined this time for you to be where you are. And while we may all feel like this virus and all its ramifications came straight out of left field for us, the Lord saw it coming, and He will see you and I to the other side of it.

These are foreign feeling days to be sure. So, we rest in the facts of our faith, that God has gone ahead of us and will lay out a way for each of us to make it through. At the same time, He’s with us as we walk this foreign land.

As with any change, the change isn’t the end. God’s grace and goodness are. As we live and move within unprecedented times, may God’s grace and goodness show up for us in unprecedented ways too. And may our eyes be open to the many, many helpers God graciously provides along the way.

 

[bctt tweet=”As we live and move within unprecedented times, may God’s grace and goodness show up for us in unprecedented ways too. -@Kristen_Strong:” username=”incourage”]

When You Need a Miracle in the Messy Middle

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A few years ago, my family spent week after week sitting in waiting rooms and hoping for answers. Just a few hours before the light of Easter morning began to stretch across the sky, my phone lit up with one of the worst text messages of my life.

Exactly two years prior, on the greatest In-Between day, I began writing Even If Not. At the time, I thought it was a blog post in the making. But those words about darkness and difficult seasons, about looking for the light and finding God’s goodness in every storyline and every in-between? Those words became a book. And two years later, with my phone and my book in front of me, I wrestled.

I was tired of waiting rooms, of the unknown, of sorrow and sickness. I wanted Sunday.

_____

With Easter approaching, I’ve spent the past few weeks thinking about those three important days on the church calendar.

Good Friday: the darkest and most horrific day in history.
Saturday: the in-between of silence, doubt, and confusion.
Sunday: the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the fulfillment of promises kept, the reason we call Friday “Good.”

The more I reflect on these days, the more I find myself attaching times or seasons of my life with each one.

A brain tumor diagnosis at seventeen? Good Friday.

Being declared cancer-free? Sunday.

Spiritual warfare and depression? Good Friday.

Seeing a relationship reconcile after four years of seemingly unanswered prayers? Sunday.

But most of the time, I’m living in Saturday. I’m desperately holding onto what I believe to be true, and I have faith that He will remain faithful, and yet life feels chaotic. Hearts break and loved ones leave, and sometimes it seems like darkness gets the final word.

We know that our Savior is victorious, but even still, Saturday exists.

There is silence. There is confusion. There is weeping. And we are full of questions because everything has changed so very unexpectedly. What then? Where do we turn in the in-between? What do we do when life doesn’t look like what we expected or hoped for?

Because most of us, if we were truly honest, would say that we are the Saturday people.

Friday holds sorrow and Sunday holds joy, and here we are, living life somewhere in-between.

It’s easy for us to skip Saturday when we think of Easter, to gloss over and hurry through to resurrection. We know Sunday is coming, and so we’re eager to turn the page. But they didn’t know, and to them the story was simply . . . over.

Saturday morning dawns, and Jesus is still in the grave. All traces of hope are replaced with doubt and shame, guilt and grief.

It’s more comfortable to skim over Saturday and move on to bright colors and hands raised, to worship songs and “He is risen” declarations. But there’s a miracle in the middle, a truth we miss when we rush through:

God is with us in our waiting, working all things for our good and His glory.

When time stood still and the Messiah took one final breath, the story didn’t end – a page simply turned.

They hid in an upper room, not realizing they were actually in a waiting room. Sunday was already on the way.

_____

Saturday teaches us to wait while clinging to hope when all seems lost. Saturday reminds us to gather together and look for the light. It’s in the Saturday seasons that we discover even when everything feels like it’s falling apart and our world is spinning mad, He is present and He is holding us together.

He is the God of the Already’s even when we’re in the thick of it. He is power and promise, good and gracious, mighty and merciful.

I knew it. I believed it in my bones. And yet my phone sat atop my book, the screen glowing with an update that challenged me (invited me?) to say it once again.

And so I did the only thing I knew to do — I lit a candle to defy the darkness, and then I reached for a piece of a paper and a pen. Tears splattered down and smeared the ink, but I kept writing until I really and truly meant it.

Even if not. Even if not. Even if not.

In the in-between, in the middle of the story, I want to be a woman who chooses “even if” instead of “what if.”

And so I filled the page while I waited for Sunday to come.

Because the glorious truth is, it always, always does.

If you’re walking through a Saturday season, this is what I’m praying over you and for you today:

Lord, may we be faithful in this in-between as You have been faithful to us in every season. Thank You for coming for us, choosing to walk with us, and promising to return again. In the dead of night, You slipped into the world You made. You stepped into the darkness and promised to be the Light. In every in-between, as we live with questions and trust that You’re the answer, help us keep our eyes on You. Teach us to choose “even if” instead of “what if.” We love You, and we wait with hope, believing that You are ever with us and You do not make mistakes. Sunday is already on the way.

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

[bctt tweet=”In the in-between, in the middle of the story, I want to be a woman who chooses ‘even if’ instead of ‘what if.’ – @kaitlyn_bouch:” username=”incourage”]