You Can’t Have Courage Without Connection

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”]

Focus on Who Not Do

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It’s the beginning of a new year, and I don’t have a word, a detailed plan, or written goals. I’m more confused than I was three weeks ago about next steps in my life. I’m praying about what I should do today and am overwhelmed and exhausted.

Are you like me, praying for guidance, direction, and the revelation of next steps? Like you, I want to be obedient to God’s will for my life and expand His kingdom as I walk out His plans for me.

But the voices of anxiety creep in and sound something like this:

  • What if I miss my next step?
  • What if I don’t live up to the full potential God has for me?
  • What am I doing that makes any real impact, like her?
  • What if I’m missing His plan completely?
  • What if I’m letting fear dictate my actions and I don’t even realize it?

I’ve been praying about what to do, when instead I should have been asking Jesus to help me become who He created me to be.

When I am who God tells me I am, then I can be and do His will.

He doesn’t need me to do anything for Him, only with Him. He gives clarity and direction at the perfect time. God doesn’t want any response to His love that isn’t rooted in love — like comparison, hustling to be the first or best, shying away from my calling, seeking to make a name for myself, striving to save the world, or anything done out of fear.

The One who holds today and all the plans for all our tomorrows wants us to be with Him — to follow Jesus so closely, our breath is on His neck. You won’t be a able to tell when His footsteps end and yours begin. When He pauses, you can pause too. When He rests, you need to rest too. When He gives you a look of confidence that pours courage into your heart, you can do the unthinkable thing — big or mundane — He asks of you for the kingdom.

You don’t have to be prepared or educated or have a detailed plan; you can be filled up with God’s Spirit. In Acts 4, “Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, said to them. . .” who Jesus really was. Then the “members of the council were amazed when they saw the boldness of Peter and John, for they could see that they were ordinary men who had no special training. They also recognized them as men who had been with Jesus” (Acts 4:8-13 NLT).

I want to be recognized as a woman who has been with Jesus, my life overflowing from His presence alone. Then, others will be amazed by what God is doing as He uses me to expand His kingdom, and God will be glorified. Isn’t that what we really want as His daughters?

It’s easier to have lists and goals than to have our life and identity be an open-palm process. We can move in Jesus, waiting on the Spirit’s leading, stepping into obedience. This kind of life is always in season, bearing fruit and being pruned, full of adventure and patience, longing for the miracle and telling stories of God’s wonders.

If we could focus on who — the Jesus in us and who He’s making us into — then the do will come without having to wonder or figure things out. A beautiful life will unfold that we don’t have to push or pry or agonize over. Then, who we become will be all about Who did the work in us and through us: Jesus.

Let’s be human beings, more focused on our identity and whose we are, not on what we do.

Jesus calls everyone to turn from their sins and be saved.

Jesus empowers us by the Holy Spirit to be disciples.

Jesus teaches His disciples to be fishers of people.

Pray to be filled up to overflowing by the Holy Spirit. Allow His presence to take over. As His Spirit then flows over into the world out of you, then you’ll see you are who He says you are as you do exactly what He wants you to do.

I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for he is right beside me. No wonder my heart is glad, and I rejoice. My body rests in safety. For you will not leave my soul among the dead or allow your holy one to rot in the grave. You will show me the way of life, granting me the joy of your presence and the pleasures of living with you forever.
Psalm 16:8-11 (NLT)

 

[bctt tweet=”He doesn’t need me to do anything FOR Him, only WITH Him. -Stephanie Bryant:” username=”incourage”]

Let’s Be “For-You” Kind of People
(and Why It Really Matters)

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You yourself have recorded my wanderings.
Put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?
This I know: God is for me.
Psalm 56:8,9b (CSB)

Have you ever considered how a past experience or principle can serve you in the here and now, even when its original application might have been very different? For example, when we were in the throes of parenting our three children, we did our best to instill values that mattered to us. A few? Loving God and esteeming His word, considering the preciousness of others, telling the truth, doing your best, using manners, and especially as they got older, not assuming a victim mentality. Blaming others for perceived injustice didn’t sit well with us if we sensed our child, in reality, wasn’t a victim of someone else’s cruelty, unfairness, or wrongdoing, like when a teacher “didn’t tell us that was going to be on the test” or “Coach never lets me start.” A victim mentality sure sounds a lot like whining, and we didn’t tolerate a finger pointed outward if three fingers were pointing back.

So, it was particularly shocking as I was writing For All Who Wander to realize for the first time — at least for a season — I had assumed the role of “victim” on occasion, when no ill will had been intended. It didn’t quite look the same as it had in my children, though. For me, victim mentality manifested itself in a pattern of being offended.

When you’re wrestling in your faith, I imagine it’s also common to be wrestling in life. This was the case for me, and maybe you understand it from the inside out, too. I was struggling and striving in faith and life, and I was looking for worldly success and approval from people to fill the voids only intended for God. I’m embarrassed to admit there were times I was outwardly critical of people while inwardly jealous of their accomplishment or acclaim. If others were doing well or excelling in places I wasn’t, I was sometimes overly sensitive to the things they said or did. I was judgmental toward and skeptical and cynical of others.

A while back, my friend Diane helped me see a profound truth about being offended: it’s always a choice. We can choose whether or not to take offense, and that means we can choose not to receive it! That thought was new to me, revolutionary even, and I’ve held onto that golden nugget ever since. If I sense feelings of offense creeping in, I purposefully and categorically reject them.

In her book, The Overachievers: The Secret Lives of Driven Kids, Alexandra Robbins says, “Someone else’s success is not your failure.” This is undeniably true, yet sometimes someone else’s success can feel like a personal failure. It happens when we’re looking inward or focusing on ourselves.

Slights, marginalization, rejection — I suspect little more than vain imaginations most of the time. In my case, my perception was all askew because I was focusing on pretty much everything but God.

Life grows increasingly dark when our back is to the light.

But here’s the thing that blows my mind: God still loved me when I was wandering. When I was so stinkin’ unlovable, He loved me anyway! Isn’t that good news? Isn’t that great news?!

Scripture tells us that God records our wanderings and treasures our tears. God is for me, and He is for you too!

I mean, really, “if God is for us, who is against us?” (Romans 8:31b)

We know that God created us in His own image, but we act like we’ve forgotten it. We’re created to be like Him, to be His image bearers in a broken world. And one way we can emulate Christ is to be “for-you” kind of people.

I share a lot about the tension between belief and unbelief in For All Who Wander. Remarkably, God used a spiritual desert in my life to demonstrate His no-matter-what kind of faithfulness and instill in me a greater understanding of His character. After lingering in Psalm 56 a while, I realized what is true of God is what I long to be true of me — for the people in my life to be able to say, This I know: Robin is for me.

What does it mean to be a “for-you” kind of person? We learn a lot when we look at Jesus and how He walked out His life as a man. He always spoke truth in love. He extended forgiveness again and again. He lived a sacrificial life, serving others, even up to and beyond death. He was compassionate. He invested in people. He sought out the outcasts and marginalized and invited them into His life. He sought the favor and approval of God, not man.

Being a for-you sort of person means we celebrate the successes of others as opposed to receiving it as an indictment against ourselves. We give the benefit of the doubt rather than receiving offense after offense. For-you people look for opportunities to care for others in word and deed. We share in the joys and hardships life throws at us. We listen with our ears and eyes and leave our phones on the table or in our bag. We’re quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry (James 1:19). We consider others’ needs more precious than our own, and we do whatever we can to reconcile and restore relationship. A for-you woman lives at peace with everyone, as much as she has anything to do with it, anyway (Romans 12:18).

For-you people simply follow God’s example.

So, who’s in? Let’s be for-you kind of people.

 

[bctt tweet=”Scripture tells us that God records our wanderings and treasures our tears. God is for me, and He is for you too! -@robindance:” username=”incourage”]

When Things Get Up Close and Personal

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I noticed an envelope taped to our front door as I pulled into our driveway. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to deserve a thank-you note so I figured it was a note of encouragement from a friend. I didn’t even open the garage door; instead, I parked in the driveway, hopped out of my car, and hurried to the front door to read it.

Imagine my shock when I discovered it was not a note. It was a notice from the neighborhood police, a.k.a the H.O.A. architectural committee. They had stopped by to notify us that our “front porch columns and windowsills needed to be repaired and painted within thirty days” or we’d be fined.

I don’t know which was worse — my frustration or humiliation!

I pictured neighbors sitting around a table talking about us in a homeowners’ meeting while writing other citations for excessive yard debris and inappropriate paint colors. 

My husband got home a few minutes later and was greeted by his wife wagging an envelope in her hand, “There are plenty of other house in much worse condition! How could they even see the windowsills and front porch? Our house is forty feet from the curb, and we’ve got huge trees blocking the view!” 

To prove my point, I marched to the street and announced that I could barely see the windows or columns. “Our house looks fine!” I insisted.

And it did — from a distance. But as I walked back into our yard and got closer to the porch, I had to admit there were a few window sills with peeling paint and parts of our columns where the wood was damaged. 

That weekend, we bought paint and woodwork supplies, borrowed extension ladders, and asked my mom to babysit. Unfortunately, the damage was worse than we realized, and what we thought would take a few hours turned into a few weekends of scraping, sanding, caulking, hammering, priming, and painting. 

On our last day of repairs, I was actually thankful someone had noticed the problems we didn’t see. If the damage had been left unchecked, we would have ended up with more extensive repairs and expensive replacements.

I was no longer angry at whoever left that envelope on our door. Instead, I was glad they cared enough to get up close and personal, to notice and tell us something we didn’t want to hear.

And so it is with Jesus. He sees the places in my heart and in my life that need repair. He cares enough to come up close and get uncomfortably personal at times, showing me things I don’t want to see about myself or my relationships — all because He loves me and wants what is best for me.

But He doesn’t just list out all the repairs I need to make. He offers what I need, to do what is needed: grace, forgiveness, mercy, love, patience, humility, and so much more.

It can feel really uncomfortable to be known so intimately, but it can also be comforting when we recognize the love that motivates God’s nudges and love notes found in His Word.

Is there an area in your life that’s been neglected? A relationship that needs repair or a conversation you’ve avoided because it requires too much work? Don’t let it get worse just because it’s hard. 

We’ve got an up close and personal Savior who sees, knows, and loves us too much to just let things go until they fall apart. He sees what we can’t and offers all the help we need for repairs, renovations, and complete transformations. 

 

[bctt tweet=”We’ve got an up close and personal Savior who sees, knows, and loves us too much to just let things go until they fall apart. -@ReneeSwope:” username=”incourage”]

State of (in)courage 2020: Love Over All

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Dearest (in)courage sisters,

I’ve been thinking and praying about you, about this space, and I want to pull up my virtual chair and have a community heart-to-heart today. Are you with me?

There are a lot of things we could dedicate this year to as individuals and collectively as an (in)courage sisterhood. A list of good and worthy goals immediately starts scrolling through my mind in typical January fashion: get healthier, be stronger, start running or run longer, build a business, chase a dream, save more, give more, be bolder in our faith, grow deeper friendships, seek forgiveness and give it freely, minimize social media and watch less TV . . . just to name a few. Are these things vying for your focus and attention too?

There’s nothing wrong with anything on this list. But as I’ve been praying over (in)courage and where we’re headed in 2020, these good pursuits begin to dim when I start thinking about one Person and what He said.

Jesus pretty much gave His friends the ultimate “new year, new life, make-a-difference, live-with-purpose” vision, all summed up in this simple statement: Love one another.

Here’s the balance of what Jesus said, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:34-35 NIV)

Paul fleshes it out a little more in Colossians when he writes,

“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.  And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”
Colossians 3:12-14 (NIV)

Over everything, put on love.

If I’m really honest, sometimes this feels like too tall an order when I look at the world around us. The problems are so deep and the divisions are so wide. The pain of this world is searing, the brokenness jarring, and we live in a culture that promotes rhetoric and finger-pointing — even (especially?) in Christian circles and “righteous” comment threads — and I’m often hard-pressed to find anything that resembles love.

Do you feel the weight of the world’s woes and foes too?

But Jesus knew that would be the case. He knew that love was the mark that would set His friends apart, and as His followers, we’ve got to relearn what true love looks like. “By this” — love — “everyone will know that you are my disciples.”

So here’s the deal, friends: If we’re going to spend time sharing stories and life in this online space, if we’re going to go first with our struggles, dive into Scripture, support each other in prayer, and cling to hope together, shouldn’t the point be to grow in love? Let’s be resolute about living out the resolution that came straight from the mouth of Jesus.

Love over all is what Jesus was all about.

But why and how can we actually put on love over all and love others well?

As I write, I’ve got three kids sick with the flu and that’s so small compared to cancer and job loss and chronic illness and the list goes ever-on of the real and searing ways people in our community are suffering. How do we give when we’re wrung out ourselves? And when someone cuts you off on the freeway and steals your Costco parking space, and a coworker misunderstands you and your spouse or friend betrays you, and you turn on the news and party lines and heartbreaking injustice just might suck the last breath out of you, love can feel like a garment that’s too itchy and tight to possibly put on! Am I the only one?

Yet the simple words from 1 John 4:19 pack a powerful spirit-gut punch: “We love because he first loved us.” Look back at the passage from Colossians, and we see it there too! We put on love because we are dearly loved by God.

We cannot love out of obligation, bitterness, resentment, or judgment. We cannot love for the sake of morality or shiny appearances. We cannot love based on an agenda or to bully our way toward change. We can only love by knowing deep in our beloved daughter souls that God first loved us! In our weakness and depravity, in our poor choices, bad moods, and other-inflicted wounds, God loves us wholly, completely, without cost or condition.

If you haven’t picked up on it by now, Love Over All is our 2020 (in)courage anthem song. Our heartbeat. The conviction to which we will set our minds and feet.

The only possible way we can claim “Love Over All” without it being a trite cliché is to first recognize how God’s love and Christ’s sacrifice is over all our lives. Then, out of joy and gratitude, we can turn our hearts, actions, and attitudes to put on love above all else. Only then can God’s love work in us and through us and mark us as people who know Jesus.

Let’s be daughters who know our Savior so well we start looking more and more like Him.

This is what we will set our hearts on this next year at (in)courage. We will think through, wrestle with, talk openly about, and boldly (courageously!) live out Christ’s call to LOVE OVER ALL. Our friends at DaySpring are committed to this too! So you’ll be seeing exciting new content and resources from DaySpring as well that will help foster this conversation and encourage our hearts as we press into Love Over All.

Each month we will explore a different aspect of Love Over All. We don’t expect it to be all Christian glitter rainbows and tidy bows. We’re not after checking more boxes off a spiritual list. We’re after spiritual transformation for ourselves and others that only Jesus can bring!

We are ready to come to this (in)courage table every day with stories from our beautifully real and unshiny lives. We’re ready to discover together in fresh ways what it means to Love Over All.

So what does this mean for you, dear (in)courage sister? Love Over All isn’t a just content plan we’re offering but an invitation for purposeful living. Are you in?

Here are  three things you can do to say Yes to Love Over All:

  1. Meditate: Write John 13:33-34 and Colossians 3:12-14 on index cards or sticky notes. Post them where you’ll see them. Read and pray through them daily.
  2. Identify: Name one thing in your life that’s keeping you from putting on love. (If you’re really brave, share it below in the comments or with someone you trust.)
  3. Invite: Ask a friend to join you in choosing Love Over All this year! Share this post on social media and use hashtags #LoveOverAll and #inLoveOverAll all year long! Because we’re always better together.

And one last thing I would say if I could reach through this screen and across a real table is this: You are so very loved, friend — by God above and your (in)courage sisterhood right here.

 

[bctt tweet=”Let’s be resolute about living out the resolution that came straight from the mouth of Jesus: Love one another. #loveoverall #inloveoverall -@beckykeife:” username=”incourage”]