Where My Help Comes From

Where My Help Comes From

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I lift my eyes toward the mountains.
Where will my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not allow your foot to slip;
your Protector will not slumber.
Indeed, the Protector of Israel
does not slumber or sleep.
The Lord protects you;
the Lord is a shelter right by your side.
The sun will not strike you by day
or the moon by night.
The Lord will protect you from all harm;
he will protect your life. 
The Lord will protect your coming and going
both now and forever.
Psalm 121 (CSB)

When everything seems impossible, when taking the next step seems unbearable, we shout and cry, loudly and silently, asking God to come through, to help. Our prayers don’t go out to a void that can’t reply back to us. Our prayers ascend to the Maker of heaven and earth, and He is ready at all times to hear us, help us, be with us.

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 hold space for one another as we cry out to God. Join the prayer chain over at @incourage!” username=”incourage”]

If You’re Back at the Beginning

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I saw the sign taped to the back of her car. 

I was driving my hour commute to work, heading from my apartment in the suburbs along the congested concrete highway toward the big city where the skyline is dense and the famous CN Tower stretches to the sky. 

The sign was taped to her rear window on lined school paper. In thick black letters it read, “New Driver”. 

Immediately, I scoffed. Who wants the world to know you’re a new driver? I don’t want the world to know when I’m new at anything. On the first day of my job a few years ago, I tried to act as confidently as possible when I walked into the massive ten-story building. Meanwhile, I had to remind myself to breathe. But I didn’t want to appear like I was new — I wanted to seem like I belonged there.

I shook my head as I read her “New Driver” sign. Merging to the other lane, I drove past her, but not before I saw her hands — white knuckles on the wheel, precisely situated at ten and two. Her glasses were jammed firm on the bridge of her nose, and her eyes were looking out only at the road ahead of her. 

I softened, and the smirk on my lips left. I thought about all the ways I’m a beginner too.

I just started leading a small group in my home on Sunday nights. I have no idea what I’m doing, and frankly, I hate that feeling. My community groups pastor told me to keep it simple, saying a small group is just inviting a few people to sit on a couch, eat snacks, and talk about Jesus. The first Sunday my group launched, I forgot about keeping it simple and anxiously made a full dinner for the entire group. I was stressed out and vulnerable, wanting to impress them and ensure it was the best small group they’d ever been to. 

You see? I’m such a beginner. 

Maybe not in driving, but in a hundred other things. I don’t want to tell someone when I’m new at something. I want to be an expert — in dating and cooking and a new job — even hosting a small group. Instead of admitting my newness, I like to pretend I’ve been doing it forever. The vulnerability of beginning is scary to me. 

It takes courage to start something new, to begin again. I see the courage it takes my friend who just divorced. She is beginning again, learning afresh how to trust God and people. She is vulnerable and she is courageous. 

Zechariah 4:10 tells us, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin . . . ” 

I wonder if you are in the midst of a beginning, if unwanted change came and forced you to start afresh, if you, too, feel like that girl on the highway next to me, a big “New Driver” sign taped to your car.

Maybe you just had a baby and feel like you have no idea how you’re suddenly in charge of raising an entire person. 

Or maybe you’re in a new job, or you’re brand new at college, or you just got your license, or you’re picking up the pieces after your painful divorce and have to go home to an empty apartment.

Beginning again can be so hard and so scary, but God tells us not to despise small beginnings — however measly they may feel in the moment.

Because the truth is, that’s all of us. Each of us is at the beginning in our own way. Don’t despise your small beginning; God is rejoicing to see you begin. 

And I think, on that day, God was rejoicing right alongside that courageous new driver — the way she boldly joined the congested highway and chose to bravely begin.

 

[bctt tweet=”Beginning again can be so hard and so scary, but God tells us not to despise small beginnings — however measly they may feel in the moment. -@alizalatta:” username=”incourage”]

The Love That Keeps Showing Up

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There are afternoons when I hide in the doorway between our master bathroom and our closet and cry because I don’t know what to do. I was told that mothers have instinct and intuition, but mine has only ever stretched so far after all these years.

The end of winter feels like an awkward dance in Indiana. The weekly forecast on my phone looks drunk and unpredictable today. A series of overcast days with empty gray skies is sandwiched between days of crisp air and sunshine. We are all waking from hibernation, stumbling forward into hopes for warmth and life, then backward as we reach for our winter coats again.

At the bus stop this morning, I heard a cardinal’s song, calling out to the other neighborhood birds. My son and I waited on the sidewalk in our puffy, worn-out coats, while the surrounding streets were covered in a blanket of birdsong. He held my hand until the bus came into view. I squinted to see the cardinal’s bright red chest sitting at the top of the tree near us like a crimson crown, the sun reaching for me, reminding me how powerful light is.

Maybe the birds not only call to each other but also call to every silent, sleeping thing, deep in the dark dirt. This morning, it felt like they were calling to the corner cavities of my heart. What if the end-of-winter birdsong is actually a war cry? What if spring has to fight to rise again, too?

Some transitions have come unwelcome, knocking me down, and stealing the wind from my lungs. But there are others that I plead and pine for.

Our family has been longing for change in a specific area, but the progress has been so slow. We’ve been assured that these things take time, that sometimes we will take two steps forward, then take a big step back, but that this dazed dance is indeed, progress. My spirit is dizzy from all of the motion.

Well-meaning friends ask us how things are going. And many days, I don’t know. I’m ashamed to not have more promising answers. One day things look hopeful, and the next leaves me in the doorway between our bathroom and closet again.

The popular saying is true: it takes a village to raise a family. But relying on a village isn’t as feel-good as it sounds on paper. Carrying one another’s burdens isn’t sexy; it’s sweaty and wearisome. We all want a victory story to celebrate, but there are challenges we face that don’t have answers. And some of them move in and stay.

Four years ago, when our family was walking through a different transition, I asked a few close friends to check in on me if I went dark for too long. I knew my tendency was to hide in times of struggle. One friend started texting me every day. Text message notifications chipped away at my shame with one small ding after another. I wanted to respond that things were just fine when they weren’t but felt compelled to say how scared I was instead. The thing is, this friend still checks in most days, four years later. It looks like a simple “hey,” but these faithful check-ins have become more like little war cries. When one of us isn’t sure we can stand another week of dancing backward steps, we remind each other that at the right time, spring always stands up to winter.

I’ve heard people say that duty is an enemy of adventure, and loyalty is boring. But duty keeps proving to be the backbone of love, and loyalty has been the strength God’s offered our family through community over the last four years.

Northern cardinals stay around throughout all four seasons here. The Crayola-red males and the dusty rose-colored females are easy to spot amongst a backdrop of skinny, skeletal trees, and white, winter snow. They flit and fly, foraging for their daily needs in silence. They hold space with their presence, showing up day in and day out, a bright spot of color in the cold.

Love cannot suffer long in the spring seasons of our lives. It’s the winters of our lives when we find the irreplaceable gift of God’s patient presence. It’s during the coldest months when we are forced to depend on one another for the warmth we can’t muster on our own. It’s the gunmetal, gray-sky days when my nose is swollen, my eyes puffy, I have no song to sing, and all I can do is simply ask God to “please, give us this day our daily bread,” that Love shows up again, stable and steady.

Love keeps showing up for this awkward dance of two steps forward, then one step back, and for today, it is more than enough.

 

[bctt tweet=”Love keeps showing up for this awkward dance of two steps forward, then one step back, and for today, it is more than enough. -@tashajunb:” username=”incourage”]

The Blessing of Cold and Flu Season

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I thought our family had sailed through the flu season untouched, but this week proved me wrong with my daughter waking up with the full-blown flu. I took off my latex gloves to write this, while I wear a medical mask.

Instead of frustration or feeling defeated, God has been showing me cold and flu season is a true spiritual opportunity.

What if this time is a chance to please the Spirit? What if wiping noses, catching throw up, and washing loads of dishes and germy laundry could bring an everlasting harvest?

When your child or loved one wakes up with an illness and your day, month, or year gets rearranged as you sit at the doctor’s office or the hospital, it’s easy to be frustrated with ideas of what else you could have done to prevent this sickness. You start to ask “Why now?” and begin to wonder why your prayers for protection weren’t answered.

It’s easy for me to focus on how quickly to get my daughter back to health with prayer and medicine. I fight feelings of frustration because I have to reorganize our lives and schedules.

But I’m realizing there is a process to healing and an opportunity for those who are the caregivers to be blessed and to bless those who are sick. 

I remember being sick as a kid, but I also remember when others cared. I remember grandparents dropping off a VCR to hook up to our TV with VHS tapes of Mary Poppins and Pollyanna when I had my tonsils out. I remember my mom being patient and caring more for me than for her own schedule when I had bronchitis. I remember my friends calling to check on me when I got mono and how cool I thought I was since the telephone was usually for adults. I was being blessed through times of sickness that were really hard.

Those who live to please the Spirit will harvest everlasting life from the Spirit. So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone — especially to those in the family of faith.
Galatians‬ ‭6:8-10‬ (NLT)

As I was straightening up my daughter’s bed covers to tuck her in, she looked at me with tired eyes. “Thank you for taking good care of me while I am sick. I love you, Mama.”

Her words made me realize washing my raw hands, watching her favorite shows, making princess soup, cleaning every surface over and over, and reorganizing our lives is what love looks like. She and I both knew it, and she was feeling blessed even though she was still sick. She will remember being sick, but she will also recall the feelings of love.

I’m choosing not to complain. I’m watching the way God uses sickness to show us how He uses all things together for our good — even hard things, and I’m choosing not to become tired of doing good for her and myself. I know this cold and flu season can be a blessing if I will let it.

How will you bless someone who is sick? Will you text or call them and tell them you’re praying for them? Will you offer to bring their favorite meal? Will you help those in your own home who need your love and patience? Don’t tire of doing good. You are reaping a harvest and pleasing the Holy Spirit with your active love.

 

[bctt tweet=”Don’t tire of doing good. You are reaping a harvest and pleasing the Holy Spirit with your active love. -Stephanie Bryant:” username=”incourage”]

Parenting on My Knees

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A loud thud jolted me out of my sleep. I sat up on my bed, wide-eyed. My heart raced. My thoughts raced faster. Was there was an intruder in my house?

My hands shook as I grabbed my phone from underneath my pillow and dialed my husband’s cell phone number. No answer. I called again and again till I heard his sleepy voice, “Are you okay? What happened?”

My voice quivered, “There’s someone in our house . . . on our house, I mean. I’m scared. Can you stay with me on the phone while I check on Ryan?”

I tiptoed quietly but quickly to my son’s room which was adjacent to mine. He was sleeping without a care in the world, cuddled up in mismatched night clothes with his favorite plush dog. As I walked back to my room, I took my husband’s suggestion and waited in the hallway for a few minutes. Clutching my cell phone tightly, I strained my ears to listen for more noises and then darted back to my bedroom.

“It must be a racoon. But if you hear any more noises, call the police, and call me back. I miss you. I’m praying for you. Try to get some sleep now,” said my husband before hanging up.

I could not go back to sleep. Simon was miles away in a hotel in Seattle, while I was in our home in California with our son. There was nothing he could do. Still afraid, I prayed fervently, quoting Psalm 23 and Psalm 91. I reminded myself that God was with me. He was present in my house. He was my Protector and Defender.

Ten minutes passed. I reached for my phone again and started aimlessly scrolling on Facebook. A friend’s post caught my attention. It had a screenshot of an earthquake reading with the caption, “I felt this earthquake a few minutes ago.”

The clenched muscles in my body relaxed. I traded fear for relief as I thanked God for protecting me not just that night but for the countless number of nights I slept safe and sound without my husband.

For more than four years, Simon traveled for work at least four nights a week. I was a part-time single mom, a solo wife and parent. Sleeping alone had transformed me from a heavy sleeper to a light one. I went to sleep, searching the silence for foreign noises. I slept on my right side so I could face the bedroom door. I checked to see if my doors and windows were locked and if the stove was turned off at least once every night before retiring to bed.

Just as fear invaded my nights, busyness filled my days. My son, Ryan, was three years old when my husband started to travel. I needed every ounce of energy and patience to keep up with him. I needed to stay alert so I could follow along his routine, so I could deal with his tantrums without losing my mind, so I could play ball with him and discipline him, so I could remember to make him a Johnny Appleseed costume for “Storybook Dress Up Day” at school, so I could stick to the grocery list and meal plan, so I could do devotions with him at dinner time and help him memorize Scripture, so I could fill my role as mother . . . and father.

Solo parenting pushed my limits, both physically and emotionally. Most days, I felt stretched too thin, worn out even before the day began. I wished my husband was around to share my workload, to watch a TV show with me, to eat dinner with me, to talk to me about my day, or to simply hold me.

But on those days when I was alone, tired, and weak, I called out to God more frequently than I ever remember doing. I cried out for help for the simplest things. Parenting by myself kept me on my knees, where ongoing conversations with God became commonplace.

God, I feel sick and I want to sleep in. Please give me the strength to wake up and get my son to school on time.

God, I am so mad at my five-year old son right now. I want to scream. Please restrain me and show me the right way to discipline my boy.

God, I need a friend today to share dinner with me while I watch my favorite show. Won’t you join me?

The more I depended on God, the more I experienced His presence. God, my Father, was an ever-present help when I was needy and weak. His comfort and counsel were available to me night and day. Even at times when I did not display earthquake-proof faith, God never left me on my own. Over and over again, He proved Himself to be faithful and trustworthy.

An absent husband made my heavenly Father’s presence in my life real and tangible. Every time I remembered that my husband was miles away, I turned around to find God present, right there, eager to meet my needs and shower me with His love.

 

[bctt tweet=”The more I depend on God, the more I experience His presence. -Mabel Ninan:” username=”incourage”]

Deconstructed to be Reconstructed

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Dear friends, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet been revealed. We know that when he appears, we will be like him because we will see him as he is. And everyone who has this hope in him purifies himself just as he is pure.
1 John 3:2-3 (CSB)

A few weeks ago, I noticed a house in our neighborhood that was falling apart. More than a cracked driveway or peeling paint, this was major disintegration at a rapid rate. And I was super annoyed to see it.

As I drove by that first day, I felt my nose wrinkle and my lip curl in disgust. I assumed that the house in question was simply being neglected, although perhaps it had been completely abandoned. Either way, the lack of attention and care being given the home bothered me — enough that I actually drove a block out of my way to avoid seeing it.

Over the next few days, I realized that someone was actually rehabbing this house. The tearing down was intentional, and a building up was surely coming soon. Strangely enough, that wasn’t enough for this judgmental neighbor. Even though I knew this house was in the process of transformation, I still felt my lip curl as I glanced toward the siding-less house with the overgrown weeds. I did think, with some curiosity, Huh. So that’s what a house looks like under siding. But my response to that thought was immediate and dismissive: Gross.

I know myself. When the work on that house is finished, I’ll be genuinely delighted. On the day I drive by and see a brand new, beautiful house standing where a pile of wood stood just a few weeks prior, I will be genuinely impressed by my neighbor’s hard work and commitment to improving their home.

And yet, while I know I can only truly appreciate the “after” picture in comparison to the “before” shot, I really did not want to witness the in-between. And though I say that I appreciate a homeowner’s labor of love involved in rehabbing a house, the truth is, I didn’t actually want to see the mess or sweat or tears involved.

Transformation — whether we’re talking about a house or a heart — is not a pretty process. True rehabilitation, true change, only happens when the old, crumbling, moldy, and rusty parts are stripped away, revealing the naked truth underneath. It’s only when we are elbow deep in mud and muck that we can see the strong, shining bones below on which we can build something beautiful.

Even during seasons of reflection and repentance, we can be tempted to put too much emphasis on the “after” part of a transformation. Sure, everyone loves gasping and applauding at the big reveal at the end of a home improvement show. And it is absolutely inspiring to read about someone’s triumph over adversity.

But what about when that excavation and rehabilitation takes place in our hearts and our lives? When we are only willing to direct our gaze on the after pictures, we’re missing the hard-fought beauty of that behind-the-scenes battle. We’re missing out on the chance to more fully understand the sacrifice that led to the victory, to more completely appreciate the reward that only came as a result of the work. And we’re missing the whole truth about who we are and how vast the gap between “before” and “after” truly is.

It took me a while, but I realize now that the day my neighbor’s house was at its ugliest and messiest was actually the most amazing one of its entire transformation. Because without that day, I couldn’t possibly appreciate its new siding and shutters and landscaping and front porch light. Unless I face the destruction, I can’t understand the magnitude of the recreation.

This truth is no different when it comes to our journey to the cross during this Lent season. If I wait until I’ve “got it all together” to reveal my struggles, I’m robbing God of the opportunity to shine through my ugliness and my mess. I’m forgetting that He is the only one who can make me a new creation, and He won’t transform me until I lay myself bare before Him and let Him get to work.

When my house is falling apart, that is the time to open up to God and to others. Not later. Not when I get it figured out. Not when I’ve painted and polished and perfected it all. If I waited for that day, I’d never have a story to tell, for we are all in constant change, constant sharpening and growing and transforming. So when our houses are falling apart, that is the day we should look up, accept the Lord’s help, and meet our neighbor’s eyes. Doing this will undoubtedly help us be more patient, more gentle — with each other and with ourselves. And as we turn to the cross and the One who loves us at our ugliest and promises to redeem our worst messes, it will certainly reveal to us the true beauty of transformation.

Excerpt from Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter by Mary Carver.

It’s not too late to have a meaningful Lenten season. Let us send you a FREE sampler from our Lenten devotional, Journey to the Cross! Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter was written with women of all stages in mind so that we can all better experience the power and wonder of Easter with intentionality and depth. We hope it will bless your Lenten season.

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

Love, Advocacy, and a Powerful Masterclass in Leadership

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Sometimes the Bible surprises me, and it surprises me that it surprises me. It usually happens when I’m taking a deep dive into an entire book of the Bible, reading through and studying it rather than quickly looking at a few of its well-known or frequently quoted verses. Do you know what I mean?

A recent example is the week I spent in Philemon — one of the five books in the Bible with only one chapter (anyone able to tell me the other four without Google?). How many times did I write “I always thank my God when I mention you in my prayers” (Philippians 1:3-4 CSB) in notes to friends and family who supported me during the writing and release of For All Who Wander? Rarely had I considered the context of Paul’s gratitude in this letter when I penned those words as my own. Reading through Philemon’s twenty-five verses a few times made me wonder how often I’ve cheated myself by focusing on only one or a few verses from a chapter or book rather than absorbing the context that inspired them.

In case you’ve forgotten or aren’t familiar, the book of Philemon was a letter written by Paul (and Timothy) to Philemon, a dearly loved brother and co-laborer for Christ, on behalf of Onesimus, a runaway slave who was owned by Philemon. Short story shorter, Paul sent Onesimus back to Philemon, appealing for Onesimus to be received back as a beloved brother in the faith. Under Roman law, slaves were considered property, and Philemon had the right to punish him — severely or even fatally. Without Paul’s help, Onesimus’s well-being and life were at stake.

When I took time to look at Philemon in its entirety, I was mostly impressed and a little amused with Paul’s words. Impressed because Paul teaches a masterclass in love and leadership and demonstrates how to use our influence for good, and amused because he sure does blow a lot of air up Philemon’s skirt. His approach also reminded me of the sandwich critique method used in Word Weavers writing critique groups (positive comments flanking either side of constructive criticism/feedback). Although Philemon’s faith was so commendable, Paul wasn’t correcting anything. Rather, he built his case around who he knew Philemon to be.

So, what can we learn from this tiny book? Have you, like me, overlooked its relevancy and instruction, applicable to our real lives on so many levels? A few practices we might want to emulate —

  1. Thank God for the “iron sharpening iron” people in your life and take time tell them why. As I mentioned, I often include Philemon 1:3-4 in letters, but do I follow the pattern of verses 5 and 7 that tells them why and verse 6 that provides a specific prayer I’m offering on their behalf? What an example to follow.
  2. Take time to call out the love, truth, and beauty you see in others. Paul refers to Philemon as a dear friend and coworker (verse 1b), and he applauds his deep faith and love for others (verse 5, 7). This letter is personal. Paul’s affection is evident and rings sincere (not just for Philemon and Onesimus but for others in the church as well). Can you imagine how they must have felt when receiving such strong words of encouragement?
  3. Use your influence to advocate for those in need. An escaped slave, Onesimus had found his way to Paul and had come to receive Jesus as his savior through the Holy Spirit’s work in their relationship. Paul loved him as his son (v. 10), going so far as to describe him as his “very own heart” (v. 12). Still, Onesimus was a slave without rights, and on his own, in danger. Paul understood this, and he used his complete arsenal to champion Onesimus’s cause — his prominence, respect, and regard as a well-educated church leader; his considerable powers of persuasion; his relatable circumstances as an elderly prisoner; the social currency of close friendship with a rich and powerful man. He even put his money where his mouth was, promising to cover any costs lost or incurred because of Onesimus’s escape. He used every talent, resource, bit of influence, and circumstance he had to help out a brother in need.
  4. Rather than making demands of others, appeal to them in love. Paul was a powerful, important, and well-known leader in the early church, which is why he was able to say, ” . . . although I have great boldness in Christ to command you to do what is right . . . ” (v. 8). However, he wasn’t interested in making Philemon do anything. Instead, according to verse 9, Paul appealed to him “on the basis of love.” Paul didn’t take advantage of his position to force Philemon’s hand, but rather established a case for Philemon to arrive at the same conclusion on his own: to receive and see Onesimus as a beloved and esteemed brother in the faith. In love, Paul expressed the truth about God and man, creating a beautiful framework to accomplish the greatest good.
  5. Set expectations and invite others to accountability. From the outset of this letter, Paul invited others into the story — Apphia, Archippus, and even the entire church that met in Philemon’s home (v. 2). Philemon wouldn’t be able to make a decision without others knowing Paul’s wishes. In a second step of accountability, Paul tells Philemon he’s planing a future visit (v. 21). Whatever Philemon decides, he’ll eventually have a face to face with Paul — no doubt, an added motivating influence. In another stroke of brilliance to me, Paul expresses his confidence in Philemon doing the right thing by telling him so! Verse 21, “Since I am confident of your obedience, I am writing to you, knowing that you will do even more than I say.” How could anyone want to fall short of that expectation?

Paul chose his words carefully to preserve his friendship with Philemon. Overflowing with love and affection, he spoke the powerful truth of who Philemon and Onesimus were. While the end of the story isn’t documented, I sense we know the outcome.

Isn’t (in)courage’s #loveoverall theme for our year beautifully aligned with Philemon? What better way to end my “letter” to you today, by putting what I’ve learned into practice. My prayer for you today mirrors Paul’s prayer for Philemon:

I pray that your participation in the faith may become effective
through knowing every good thing that is in us
for the glory of Christ.
Philemon 1:6 (CSB)

And, if you study this dynamite-in-a-small-package book, I’d love to hear your insights and observations in comments!

 

[bctt tweet=”Rather than making demands of others, appeal to them in love. #loveoverall #inloveoverall -@robindance:” username=”incourage”]

Love Over All: Love Listens

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My dear brothers and sisters, understand this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. 
James 1:19 (CSB)

Every month of 2020, we will feature the Love Over All theme verse on the first Sunday of the month. We love everything about Love Over All (read more about it here) and can’t wait to share these amazing verses and ways to live them out with you!

March’s theme is Love Listens.

As a kid, did you ever hear the phrase, “There’s a reason you have two ears and only one mouth!”? Or perhaps, as an adult you’ve heard (or said), “Measure twice, cut once?” If you have, consciously or not, the deliverer of that message was speaking the truth of James 1:19.

For some of us, this is nearly impossible. Quick to listen, slow to speak. Measure twice, cut once. But love listens because love first seeks to understand. At it’s core, that’s all listening really is: caring enough to try to understand before responding.

This month, may we be committed to the art of listening well. For those who are quick to listen, have patience with the talkers. Measuring twice is hard for some of us, and it takes practice. Thank you for modeling well the heart of Love Listens; we promise, people see you and people see God’s love in you. For the talkers: breathe. Let others speak until they’re finished, jot down what you want to say, then wait to say it. Intentionally let someone else speak first. And as for the slow-to-anger part of these verses in James . . . that’s much easier to do when we are first quick to listen and subsequently slow to speak.

Love listens to understand. Love listens to grow. Love listens to strengthen.

Love Listens.

 

[bctt tweet=”Love listens to understand. Love listens to grow. Love listens to strengthen. #lovelistens #loveoverall #inloveoverall” username=”incourage”]

Thigh Dimples, Gray Hair, and an Underarm Situation

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We were at Burger King because my kids like Whoppers and it was baseball season and it was just easy.

I reached over to the nice lady handing me our food and my sweet, precious delight of a child took hold of the skin UNDER MY ARM. You know the place, where triceps are supposed to be. The dangling place. The place that has names I shall not refer to as to not offend. That place. She squeezed it, and then she jiggled it. With her sweet little fingers, she jiggled my arm like it was JELLO.

Let’s take a moment.

Okay, so she did that, and I said, “Could you please not do that?”

She grinned and took her hand away from the place, and we moved on.

So here’s the thing: my bits are changing.

I’m growing out my gray hair (which, by the way, I reserve the right to change my mind about at any moment), and I’m realizing that I’m going to have to make peace with the thigh dimples because I have no Jillian Michaels abilities in me — at all. I called to cancel my gym membership, and the lady was all, “You’ve only been a member three months.”

Nice try shaming me, lady. I LIFTED TWENTY-POUND WEIGHTS AND MAYBE SPRAINED MY WRIST IN THE PROCESS. I’m on medical leave.

Anyway.

The dimples aren’t going anywhere.

My wrist hurts from lifting a dumbbell (Lord, help me).

I’m not going to starve myself (Goodbye, metabolism).

And while I’m watching my sugar intake and eating more smoothies and salads, there are times I just want some wings and beer in bed with my husband.

Here’s the point: It’s okay to age.

And if we could all just be okay with this aging thing, I could be okay with this aging thing.

I always said I wanted to age with grace, but that’s easy to say when you’re young and you think you don’t start aging until you’re sixty. You don’t think you’re going to be plucking chin hairs and seeing a stylist every two months in your mid-thirties. You think that pizza and crab dip is no thing because you’ll just lay off the next day. You don’t know that when you lose weight you’ll gain more back because your body doesn’t care about what you think.

It’s time to make peace with ourselves and our bodies and, really, our inner person.

Pluck the chin hairs, dye your hair, eat kale if that’s what you want to do, but remember this: it’s your inner person that God wants to develop, mature, and make holy, and from that inner person comes all the outer stuff.

How do we make peace with the inner person? We get real vulnerable and lay it all bare before the Lord, saying, “Search me, O God, and know me” (Psalm 139:23).

We let Him see the inner places that He already sees and invite Him in. We align with Him in doing the work in us.

That inner-person work is the good stuff, where our identity is formed and cemented, and we learn to trust God with all of it, especially our fears — our fears of people judging our looks, our fears of people not taking us seriously, our fears of being unwanted.

All of them, whatever they are — He already knows them and here’s the thing: He loves us. He takes us seriously. He doesn’t judge our looks. He wants us.

It’s okay to have dimply thighs and gray hair and jiggly underarms. Life is so much more than the effort we spend trying to look good for fear of what people will think of us.

Maybe for you, it’s time to hand those fears over to God and let Him tell you who you are. Maybe you need to know it’s okay if you dye your hair, and it’s okay if you don’t. No rule there. But either way, you are loved, you are seen, and you are wanted.

Let it be enough.

Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.
1 Peter 3:3-4 (NIV)

 

[bctt tweet=”It’s okay to age. Life is so much more than the effort we spend trying to look good for fear of what people will think of us. -@sarahmae:” username=”incourage”]

When Becoming Room Mom Means Creating Community

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I was the student in the back of the lecture hall who never raised her hand, who waited for someone else to ask the question, who thought others knew what they were doing when she was confused or lost. I didn’t dress to stand out. I didn’t take up a lot of space with my body or voice. I didn’t want to bring unnecessary attention to myself or speak only to then prove myself to be incompetent. I saw myself as someone who should blend into the background, so I cruised under the radar of being seen and known and cloaked myself with the pretense of not caring whether or not I made new friends.

But it was just that — it was pretend because I did care. I wanted to be seen, to be known, to belong. I wanted to feel confident enough in myself, to not be awkward and be relaxed in a crowd. I wanted to be able to reach beyond my regular group of friends, but it felt unsafe to break out of my comfort zone. Why put myself out there when I have friends who already love me and like me?

So, I closed my arms tightly around myself and the community I already had and stayed where I felt safe without thinking to create a safe place for myself and others.

I remember those days now that my kids are in school. I tell them to be kind to their classmates, to look for the ones who may look lonely or alone, and to invite others to play with them even when they have a best friend they always want to play with. I teach them these things because we can be prone to draw tight circles around ourselves with only the people we like and choose what’s comfortable or best only for ourselves without thinking of the other.

I want them to be unlike me in many ways. I want them to learn earlier on that being available and intentional in community is a lifelong lesson they can carry with them but also one that can be practiced everyday while they’re at school.

But what I wasn’t expecting was for the lesson I was teaching them to bounce back at me.

My kindergartener’s teacher asked me to be the room mom for her class, and for days I hemmed and hawed because I didn’t know if I wanted that kind of responsibility or that kind of visibility with the other parents. I would’ve been happy to simply blend in with the other parents instead of leading the charge.

But the teacher was kind in her persistence and spelled out her expectations clearly. I would be sharing the load with another mom, which made everything seem light and doable.

As I sat down to write the first email introducing myself to all the parents, it hit me how I’m not simply doing a favor for the teacher. I won’t simply be in charge of crafts and parties and making copies. I’ll have the opportunity to reach out and create a space for the parents to land softly. I’ll have the chance to extend my arms and my boundary lines to include each parent but especially those who are new. I’ll carry the important weight of seeing others, hearing them when needed, and linking arms with them to co-create an environment of welcome and warmth for our kids.

Choosing to create community doesn’t only apply to the church. It should expand into every other area of our lives as well. Instead of sticking to the small circles we’re a part of or instead of standing on the outside looking in, hoping for someone to see us, we can be the ones to see first, to extend ourselves and draw new lines around who we’re calling our community.

Lord, help us to have the eyes to see, to have the heart to reach out, and to break out of our comfort zones so we can be community for those who are lonely and alone, for those who need a friend or a outstretched hand. We want to be like You and love like You do. May your expansive, ever-reaching love wreck us every time we try to close our circles tighter instead of wider. In Your gracious name we pray, amen.

 

[bctt tweet=”God, may your expansive, ever-reaching love wreck us every time we try to close our circles tighter instead of wider. -@gracepcho:” username=”incourage”]

Who Will Heal Our Sorrows?

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I’m waiting for a package in the mail. It’s a batch of fancy body lotion — a gift to myself. Sure, I could use grocery store lotion or even Vaseline in a jar. (Some of you know what I mean.) But during a recent stay at a city hotel, the courtesy kit on the sink included a creamy smell-good lotion. So back at home, I ordered some, and I’m excited for it to arrive.

It’s the soothing factor — isn’t that what we so desire? When life turns hard, we need comfort. Thus, the smell-good lotion is on its way. I long to slather it on and feel pampered — wrap myself in a terry robe, curl up on the couch, and breathe in that sweet smell, letting the indulgence soothe my soul.

But what if there were a better balm? Soul care, but from on high — especially in times of sorrow.

I’ve been reflecting on that during the long, cold days of this, our shortest of months. February started with a shock, of course. Late in January, Kobe Bryant’s helicopter fell from the sky. Then came the impeachment fallout, the coronavirus outbreak, a Super Bowl with uproar (J-Lo and more), political clashing and brawling (par for the course). Add on your drama – and my drama .

As a friend recently lamented, we can hardly watch the news, scroll down our phones, turn on a podcast, or read a blog without facing an outpouring of pain. As I write this, a police siren is screeching down a street near my house, and I live in a quiet, boring, slow-going neighborhood. Well, usually quiet, boring, and slow-going.

The prophet Jeremiah understood times like ours. His call was to preach to God’s people, but they rejected God’s message. So, what came next? False gods, deceitful prophets, dishonest living. Yes, uproars and fall outs, sinning and sorrows.

As the Lord Himself lamented: “When people fall down, do they not get up? When someone turns away, do they not return?” (Jeremiah 8:4) Then, turning poetic, the Lord mourned:

“Even the stork in the sky
knows her appointed seasons,
and the dove, the swift and the thrush
observe the time of their migration.
But my people do not know
the requirements of the Lord.”
Jeremiah 8:7 (NIV)

On a snowy day in Colorado, I ponder these things, too. Looking out on gray gloom – a winter sky unyielding even to sun – I hear Jeremiah’s frustrated plea:

 “Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?”
Jeremiah 8:22 (NIV)

The words stop me.

They’re rhetorical, of course. But the question shouldn’t come from a servant of faith. He should know who soothes our sorrows. God does. Instead, by asking of balm, the prophet points to Gilead, an area east of the Jordan River that was known for spices and healing salves. Call it the Bath and Body Works of its day. When we’re in sorrow, however, who heals our soul’s sorrows? Our Healer Christ.

He is our peace, says Ephesians 2:14. In this way, say theologians, He overcomes our “dis-eases” with life, restoring to us what no balm of Gilead ever could. And, no, that’s not to dismiss life hurt, clinical depression, anxiety and worry, and other towering mountains. They are real. But looking to Him and abiding in Him can give our hearts joy – even on a cloudy day. Isn’t that still true?

Simply, Christ as Healer “restores meaning in our lives,” as one scholar (John Pilch of Baylor University’s Center for Christian Ethics) put it. Healing Peter’s fevered mother-in-law, the Lord enabled her to return to serving her guests. Do our lives become so perfect in Him, however? No.

But to seek Him is to know He is our balm. As the old spiritual song answered, “There is a balm in Gilead – to make the wounded whole. There is a balm in Gilead – to heal the sin-sick soul.”

If you’re sorrowing today, may you allow time to sit with Christ — not looking for anything more but time with Him. In Him, wrote the nineteenth century British preacher J.C. Philpot, “There is more in the balm to heal than there is in guilt to wound; for there is more in grace to save than there is in sin to destroy.”

Will we apply His salve, more than our fancy hotel body lotions? Will we curl up on the couch and reflect, more than on our woes, on His power and willingness to help and heal them? For an answer, another servant of God, Charles Spurgeon, wrote this prescription: “We trust him, and sin dies; we love him, and grace lives.” Added Spurgeon: “We wait for him and grace is strengthened; we see him as he is, and grace is perfected forever.”

As I type those rampart words, my eyes are drawn to a window where I see this – finally, sunshine. It breaks through, indeed. The Son always rises, blue skies and all. May we run to Him for the soothing of our souls. Then, in Him, let’s again just do this: rejoice.

 

[bctt tweet=”If you’re sorrowing today, may you allow time to sit with Christ — not looking for anything more but time with Him. -@PatriciaRaybon:” username=”incourage”]

We Can Disagree but Let’s Do It in Love

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I quickly grabbed my phone and texted a friend:

Hey, are you okay?

While I waited for her response, I flipped back to Facebook to keep reading a stream of vitriol against this woman for a comment she recently made. Yes, her post had been political, and I won’t even mention what she wrote. I personally didn’t see anything wrong with it though. She hadn’t insulted anyone or used condescending language. She was merely expressing lament and frustration with recent events. But her fellow Facebook “friends” were telling her they were not okay with her view.

Even worse, people were making it clear that statements like hers made her a deserving target for verbal attacks.

Reading hate-filled comments on social media always feels like a punch in the gut. But what shook me to my core was the fact that this woman was a Christian and the majority of aggressive responses were by Christians too. You’ve probably seen things like this unfold in your corner of the media-verse. Perhaps you’ve even been the recipient and victim of these attacks. I have, and it’s never fun.

It’s moments like these in which social media pulls back the curtains to show the ways that fellow Christians sling mud at each other without a hint of remorse or consciousness to their own hate. We can have such little love for one another, and the things that happen on Facebook and Twitter are just a microcosm of similar fights happening in the church and in our own homes. We’re nothing if not divided, and many of us now carry the wounds these fights have inflicted.

This is not the life of believers that Jesus envisioned. In fact, He called His disciples to live exactly opposite to a world of hate. In John 13:34-35, He says, “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.”

These are such simple but powerful words. I think many of us know we’re supposed to love each other, but we don’t all live it out well in our day-to-day lives. The practice of love is complex, and if we are to embrace and model it in our own lives, we need to understand what Jesus meant in these two short verses.

First, Jesus tells His disciples, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” We are to love others because God first loved us. There is chronology at work here but also an important worldview. We are supposed to live our lives with a constant recognition and gratitude for God’s love for us. We are to thank God for His saving, merciful love on us that is new each and every day. We are to remember the cross and remember what Christ has done on our behalf. We are to see God’s love for us as humans over and over again in Scripture until it’s ingrained in our minds, and we can never forget the all-encompassing reality of God’s love for us every second of every day. It is only when we are living in this truth that we can become so saturated with the love of God that it will flow through us and out of us and onto everyone around us.

Second, it is the love of God flowing through us that bears witness of who we are to the world. It is through love that we put Christ on display in our lives. As Jesus says, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

And this should convict us all. Because Jesus is saying that people will only know that we are Christians if we love — not how much knowledge we have, not have many arguments we win, not how pretty our Instagram page is, not how many books we write or how many social justice causes we take part in or what ministries we are a part of. Your measure as a Christian is in your love.

I’m not saying we can’t disagree with each other. We can, and we will, because God made us all so different, but we can disagree with each other in love.

So, the next time we’re scrolling on social media and we read an inflammatory comment, let’s choose love. Maybe that means choosing not to respond at all. Maybe that means asking the person to clarify their statement because it sounded attacking, but you want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it means that you just personally message the person and express your hurt, and you choose to have a private discussion instead of a heated public one.

And these same approaches can be used in person too. Loving a family member with a different political view or someone in your church who is constantly criticizing or that coworker who always has something unkind to say about you is no easy task. But we can choose to let love win. We can choose to lean into Christ, to pray for God to remind us of His love for us, and carefully, prayerfully, decide what words, if any, need to be spoken. Love loves — always.

 

[bctt tweet=”We can disagree with each other and we will, because God made us all so different, but we can disagree with each other in love. -@drmichellereyes:” username=”incourage”]

A Love That Stands Near

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The words jumped off the page, and I gasped.

Not that I hadn’t read the story before. In fact, in my four decades of reading the Bible, I’d probably read this particular story at least a dozen times, if not more.

Even so, the words read like the crisp pages of a new book first opened. How had I missed them before?

The following night the Lord stood near Paul and said, ‘Take courage! As you have testified about me in Jerusalem, so you must also testify in Rome.”
Acts 23:11 (NIV)

In the middle of verse 11 sits four simple words that rocked my world:

The Lord stood near . . . 

For more than a month, I’ve been studying the book of Acts. In the chapters and verses leading up to this one, the author of the book of Acts — Luke, the physician — detailed the birth of the early church and the eventual conversion and ministry of a guy named Paul. By the time we land in chapter 23, Paul’s been on two extended, gospel-sharing, missionary journeys in Asia and Eastern Europe. Now he’s returned to Jerusalem and church leaders with a dazzling report of the growing Church.

The problem? Not everyone was dazzled. Devout Jews believed he was comprising their faith. Threatened by his testimony that Jesus was the Christ, the Messiah God had always promised, they determined to silence him. I suspect they were afraid of his influence, as it was rapidly outpacing theirs.

Thus, a select and influential group of leaders started to spread rumors about Paul’s character, stirring up all kinds of controversy around his ministry. In fact, it grew so heated the Roman authorities had to intervene, throwing Paul behind bars for his own safety.

And that’s when I read those four words.

The Lord stood near . . . 

In the dark of an unjust prison, God came. Paul had been doing everything right. Following God on harrowing and exhausting journeys, preaching the good news of Jesus to strangers, showing love and compassion and concern for God’s people and the church. Even so, in spite of his tireless and courageous efforts, he ended up in prison while those who spread lies remained free.

I hate to break it to you, but life isn’t fair. I’m guessing you already know this. Reading your Bible and going to church don’t guarantee a good life. And when life doesn’t turn out like we hoped, our instinct is to find a reason for our pain. Maybe an explanation will bring relief to the injustice.

Did I do something wrong?

Is God mad at me?

Why won’t He do something? 

At the other end of these questions, however, sit even more pain and imprisonment. As it turns out, what we need more than reasons and explanations is Presence.

The kind of love that stands near.

The following night the Lord stood near Paul and said, “Take courage!”

When our best and most sincere efforts land us with lackluster results, we can trust that the One who loves us most hasn’t left us to go it alone. He stands with us in our prisons, keeps watch over us in our nights. He isn’t put off by our pain, but draws closer still, whispering in our ears: “Take courage, sister! You’re not alone! My love goes with you, even here.”

I’m not sure what unexpected and unfair circumstance you’ve found yourself in today, but this I know for certain:

We have a God whose Love cannot be blocked by bars or walls. No matter what injustice or unfairness you face, He is more powerful still. And He will not leave you until He accomplishes all He’s planned for you.

His is a Love that stands near. Not because you’ve earned it, but because His love can’t help it.

 

[bctt tweet=”When our best and most sincere efforts land us with lackluster results, we can trust that the One who loves us most hasn’t left us to go it alone. -@MicheleCushatt:” username=”incourage”]

When You’re Tired of Being Second Choice

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“Mom, I feel like I’m the backup friend.”

I knew exactly what she meant as soon as she said it, but I asked her to clarify anyway. And sure enough, my sweet middle-schooler was afraid that she was nobody’s first choice, that all her friends liked someone else better than her. She felt like they only saw her as a backup to their true preference, their first choice.

Thankfully, this discussion — like so many others — took place in the car, while I sat directly in front of my daughter on our way to dance class. If I tilted my head just right, I could catch her eye in the rearview mirror, but for the most part I couldn’t really see her and she couldn’t see me. That was a relief because tears had immediately sprung to my eyes — not an unusual occurrence for me, for sure, so my daughter would not have been surprised to see me cry. Though her words and her pain struck something deep inside me, I didn’t want to make the conversation about me.

But it could have been.

Just a couple days before that car conversation, I’d realized that I was absolutely the backup friend to someone I’d made my first choice. “It didn’t even occur to me to call you,” she said without apology. It wasn’t an insult, just a simple fact. And in that moment, and in the moment I heard my daughter share her situation, I felt exactly twelve years old. And fourteen and nineteen and twenty-three and twenty-eight and thirty-two and thirty-eight and, yes, forty-one. Because I’ve felt overlooked or ignored by friends so many times through the years. The feeling may have first shown up in elementary or middle school, but it never seems to go away.

I didn’t tell my daughter that part, though I assured her she was not alone in her feelings. I told her a few stories of times I’d felt like the last one picked for dodgeball (noting that I have also literally experienced being picked last for dodgeball), and I reminded her that one of her very own friends had said she felt like second choice not too long ago.

More importantly, as we drove down the road and later as we sat together on the couch, I told my daughter the same two things I tell myself (over and over and over):

1. What you’re going through is hard, and I know it hurts. I’m sorry you’re feeling sad and lonely.

To myself, I might use some stronger language, saying straight out, “You know what? This just sucks. It does!” But while I didn’t say it quite that way to my daughter, I made sure to give her space to grieve, to sit with her in the pain, to acknowledge how hard this — and most everything related to friendship — really is. Though I’m admittedly a “fixer,” I tried really hard not to jump in with suggestions for making it all better. And when I’m grieving my own friendship status, I make an effort to give myself grace to feel the pain before moving on to the practical-solutions part of my moping.

And for my daughter, myself, and for anyone else I find myself weeping with while they weep (Romans 12:15), I also try to point back to God before looking to ourselves for answers. That’s why the next thing I say when you’re tired of being second choice is this:

2. You are God’s first choice.

Friends may sit with someone else in the cafeteria, forget to invite us to the slumber party or the movie night, or forget to add our number to the group text. We might not get picked for the team, the group project, the solo, the part, the homecoming date, the plus one to the wedding, the delivery room, or the mastermind group. But no matter how many people deem us unworthy, God never will.

God will never snub us or roll His eyes when we try to talk to Him. He’ll never leave us out of His big plan. He won’t turn His back on us or walk by without making eye contact. He won’t let us down or hurt us. He will never pick anyone before us.

God chooses you. (John 15:16)
Before you were even born, He chose you! (Jeremiah 1:5)
Actually, before the world was made, He chose you. (Ephesians 1:4)
Out of all the people, God chooses you. Yes, you! (Deuteronomy 14:2)

If you’re feeling like a backup friend today, my heart is heavy for you. I know how that feels, and it’s horrible. If you’re feeling like you’ll never be anyone’s first choice, take heart. Don’t spiral into those dark thoughts! You are someone’s first choice. You’re the first choice of the One. You are loved by God. You are valued and treasured. You are chosen.

 

[bctt tweet=”Out of all the people, God chooses you. Yes, you! #belonging #beloved -@marycarver:” username=”incourage”]

Do You Live a True Religion?

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“Why have we fasted, but you have not seen?
We have denied ourselves, but you haven’t noticed!”
“Look, you do as you please on the day of your fast,
and oppress all your workers.
You fast with contention and strife
to strike viciously with your fist.
You cannot fast as you do today,
hoping to make your voice heard on high.
Will the fast I choose be like this:
A day for a person to deny himself,
to bow his head like a reed,
and to spread out sackcloth and ashes?
Will you call this a fast
and a day acceptable to the Lord?
Isn’t this the fast I choose:
To break the chains of wickedness,
to untie the ropes of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free,
and to tear off every yoke?
Isaiah 58:3-6 (CSB)

We might profess with our mouths Jesus is Lord, volunteer our weekends for house building in Mexico, fast coffee for Lent, and give our spare change to the homeless man outside the grocery store, and yet our hearts could be missing the mark. Jesus came to do the deep work of restoring justice in this world, and how are we joining Him in that work? Are our eyes open to see the oppressed who are right in our midst? Are we aware of the unjust systems we are a part of? How are we facing the wickedness of our own hearts when we realize it?

True religion is a combination of faith and works — both internal and external. It means uprooting and examining the faith of our childhood against the Word of God. It means wrestling with what it means to love ourselves and our neighbors and then actually doing it in whatever way God asks of you. It means knowing about God and theology is only a part of our faith but learning to live it out is what bears fruit.

True religion changes our lives, our posture before God and others, and frees us so we can free others.

 

[bctt tweet=”True religion changes our lives, our posture before God and others, and frees us so we can free others. ” username=”incourage”]

Moving into Stillness

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Frustrated, I left the pulmonary specialist’s office feeling deflated and in limbo, suspended between known questions and unknown answers. After stress tests, an electrocardiogram, a chest x-ray, and so many failed trial treatments, the specialist confirmed that there was a problem:

“Your oxygen levels decrease as you walk,” he said. 

But he had no explanation for why this was happening, let alone solutions for fixing it. He only offered the option for further testing.

Why am I experiencing shortness of breath during my workout? Why am I experiencing chest pains long after my cardio-intense workouts have ended?

And as he scheduled more tests for weeks and months into the future, the answers to all my urgent questions were elusive.

“Until we figure this out,” the specialist told me, “you must avoid cardio workouts. You can do yoga or something like that.”

Talk about adding insult to injury! First, I didn’t have answers to why I couldn’t breathe, and now, I was being told not to move the way I want to!

I am a fan of yoga, and a few years ago, I used to practice three to four times a week. But shifts in life had taken me to more cardio-intense options for working out. I love the fast-paced movement of the cardio-strength fitness classes. The loud thumping music vibrates so strongly that it alone seems to pump my heart. Jumping, squatting, lifting, planking in the company of more physically fit women, I like to pretend that I am as athletic as they are, though I am not. But raptured by the music and fast-paced movement, I can escape the tension I feel in my muscles screaming for me to notice them. And when I feel like I can’t muster the energy to move one more inch, the music seems to move my body for me. I spur myself on with this thought: “I can’t run one more lap, but I can dance!” The movement stirs so much joy in me, and I believe my body is meant for this type of movement. When it comes to other activities involving men and their performances, one can go on this official site to get medical help to be better.

But I had to give it up. With my head bowed in shame, I told the cardio-strength teacher I could not return to class — at least not until I understood what was going on in my chest. Disappointed, I scanned the YMCA fitness class schedule for yoga classes. The only yoga class that fit my schedule was gentle yoga. I was devastated! Or should I say, my ego was bruised. I identified gentle yoga with “movement for restricted people” (yes, I am choosing and typing my words carefully so as not to offend anyone). I felt like I was being sentenced to immobility and aging. I know that was horrible thinking on my part, but those were my honest thoughts at that time. 

When I got to the studio, I reluctantly dragged my yoga mat to a corner, and before the instructor began, I scanned the room looking for the athletic body type I could pretend to be like. I did not find her. Instead, I seemed to be the youngest person in the room — another blow to my ego. 

The instructor began the session by bringing us to stillness. Her music was light, airy, and instrumental — no words for me to shout along with. Her voice intertwined with the music — the two floated above our foreheads and twirled around our bodies — so quietly that I could hear my own heart beat. She guided us to stillness, to focus inward and on our own life sustaining breath — each inhale and every exhale, valuable and meaningful. 

As we honored our breath, she read a beautiful, life encouraging truth to us. Each time, the beauty and truth of what she had chosen to read disrupted my noisy thoughts and brought me to rest. The words were a generous outpouring, a reflection of God’s love for us. Each time, I was captivated by this gift I did not know I needed in order to truly breathe. What a paradox! Because I couldn’t breathe, I was advised not to move fast. I was “banished” to gentle yoga, where in stillness, I found my breath and was restored by words written, chosen, and spoken to me so that I may abundantly experience life.

In stillness and slow, gentle movement, I noticed all the movement within, stoking my inner fire, warming me from the inside out. I learned to become attentive to the breath spreading life throughout my body to each limb, finger, and toe. The instructor reminded us that instead of doing a workout, we were doing a work-in. 

I thought of the king and former shepherd, David, in Psalm 23 where he likened himself to a sheep being cared for by the Eternal Shepherd. Knowing what was best for David, the loving and generous Shepherd made him lie down in rich, green pastures near quiet waters and refreshed his soul. 

This is what I am learning: inconvenience and loss can offer me gifts I did not know I needed, giving me sight where I did not know I had blind spots. What seemed like a setback from reaching fitness goals has been a redirect toward meeting spiritual and emotional needs. I still don’t have answers to my health questions, but in the space between questions and answers, I am experiencing an overflow of provision through stillness, gentleness, and quiet.

When you invite stillness into your life, you become more present to God moving within you. When you slow down into quietness, you more fully inhabit the world designed for your existence, living in the peace God intended for your life. 

 

[bctt tweet=”We can experience an overflow of provision through stillness, gentleness, and quiet instead of striving. -Lucretia Berry (@brownicity):” username=”incourage”]