The Sacred Work of Trying Softer

The Sacred Work of Trying Softer

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With a heart about to burst, I walked down the aisle to Pachabel’s Canon in D toward the one who was choosing me and I, him. I felt Brendan’s gaze on my face, and his steady love caused me to feel grounded in a way that was still new to me. The air was thick with anticipation, joy, and a touch of grief. I had just finished my first year of graduate school for counseling, and in every sense of the word, I had fought to protect the joy of my wedding day.

My dad had chosen not to be present, and neither was much of my extended family — and this reality created a deep ache. And yet Brendan and I were entering a redemptive moment that would begin our life together. It was beautiful and overwhelming at the same time.

When I reached him at the front of the church, Brendan whispered, “Aundi, look around. Take a snapshot in your brain of this moment. We’re here — we’re doing this. Let’s not miss it.”

While I didn’t yet have the language to describe paying compassionate attention to myself or what I would come to call it later — trying softer — Brendan’s words on that day anchored me. They reminded me to give myself permission to feel fully loved and connected to God, myself, and my spouse, even while grief was present there too.

After Brendan whispered those words to me, I exhaled slowly and felt my feet beneath me. I suddenly noticed the weight of my dress and the lighting in the grand old synagogue that had been turned into a church. The late afternoon summer sun streamed in through the stained glass windows and cast a rainbow of pastels on the sanctuary. When we turned to face our guests, I looked around at each face sitting in the pews, and I actually saw them. I gave myself space to be loved by those who were there to support me.

I peered out at each of my siblings — my sister, who’d long been my best friend and confidant, and my three brothers, with their wit, courage, and gentleness. I saw my mom, and though she looked tired and was fairly new to her own recovery journey, I saw how much she loved me and hoped for my life ahead. Seeing my soon to be in-laws and my husband’s family moved me greatly too.

It was then that tears began to stream down my face, because while the day wasn’t perfect, it felt sacred, and I wasn’t missing it.

I look back on my wedding day now as an Ebenezer; a sign of God’s faithfulness to me (1 Samuel 7:7-12). Even now, I return to those moments as a piece of gold in my story that reminds me God is with me as I hold the fullness of my human experience. Though they are uneasy companions at times, joy and grief are intricately connected. In the last decade as a licensed therapist, I have learned that the key to holding these seemingly contradictory experiences together is to learn to pay compassionate attention to all that our minds, bodies, and souls are actually experiencing. It’s in this space of gentleness that we can move through the good and the hard, and allow God to meet us in their midst.

In a world that tells us to try harder—it’s time for something different. It’s time to try softer. We think if we just keep going, keep hustling, keep pretending everything is great, we’ll find success and happiness. But clinical therapist Aundi Kolber knows this leaves us overworked, overwhelmed, and exhausted. In her debut book, Try Softer, Aundi teaches us how to set boundaries, grow in self-compassion, and more in order to live a life of connection and joy. Trying softer is sacred work. And while it won’t be perfect or easy, it will be worth it.

GIVEAWAY!*

We are so excited about the message of this new book that we just can’t wait to share it with you! Leave a comment on this post and you’ll be entered to win one of FIVE copies!

*Giveaway will close at 11:59pm CT on 1/10/2020. Open to US residents only. 

 

[bctt tweet=”Move out of anxiety, stress and survival mode and into a life of connection and joy. -@aundikolber in her debut book, #trysofter: ” username=”incourage”]

When We Face Loneliness in Hospital Hallways

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The hospital room is dark, but the lights from the machines are as brightly lit as nightlights. My son is asleep in his hospital bed, tethered to the equipment that drips liquid into his veins and monitors his heart.

Down the hall, nurses work at computers. They tread softly past doors. A gloomy sadness falls over me like dark clouds coming before a rain storm. They enter our room in the dark hours of the night, quiet figures in the shadows, checking my son’s vitals. They are not here to cheer me up or make me feel better. They’re here to do their job, to alleviate pain, but not to offer company.

I take a break and walk the halls, sneaking peeks into other patients’ rooms. I see tired parents and bed-ridden children, staring absentmindedly at the TV or sleeping. Most are like me, one parent staying with a sick child so the other parent can keep the family functioning at home. We did not choose to be here, but this is what we must do for our children.

I meet a young mother doing laundry near the parent’s lounge. She is alone, and I sense, as lonely as I am. As parents, we know what it’s like to be part of the sick child club, and so one of the first questions we ask is, “Why is your child here?” followed by, “How long have you been here?” Our lives, once ruled by the frequency of diaper changes and playdates, is now ruled by medical terms we’ve been forced to learn and counting down the hours until we can leave.

“So why are you here?” I ask. She glances up at me as she folds tiny baby garments that look like they’d fit a doll.

“Oh, my baby is in the NICU,” she says. “He’s been here for three months.”

“Three months?” I say. She is one of the marathoners.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m doing laundry here,” she replies. I hear the false cheer in her voice, the strain of too much isolation, the longing for home.

I understand that kind of pain. The hospital had become a second home for our family since my son was diagnosed with a genetic disease at nine months old. I never expected to feel so lonely in the hospital with my child, where I was surrounded by people but isolated from my community of support, too far from home to find any sense of normal or to feel God’s presence.

What I wanted in the darkness of our hospital room was a familiar face. I wanted home. I craved God’s comforting presence. But I didn’t want to be stuck in this place, another night sleeping on a hard couch.

Therein lies the problem with loneliness. It’s not the absence of people; it’s the absence of familiar people — the ones who love you as you are, the community of friends who provide a secure base of stability and comfort when you’re in distress.

But loneliness can also be the absence of connection with God, of tuning into His presence and being reminded that He does not leave us when we feel most alone. Sometimes in the midst of beeping medical machines, it was hard for me to remember that God was here too.

In Psalm 25:16-17, the Psalmist says, “Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish.”

When we are lonely, that is when we ask Jehovah Jireh, the Lord who supplies our needs, to relieve us of our troubles. Our hearts long for Him, but until we turn to Him and tap deeply into that life-giving relationship and His unconditional love, then we are left searching for poor substitutes.

In our need, we search for alternatives to fill the holes in our hearts. We wander hospital halls looking for something that reminds us of home, when what we need is to grasp hold of the relief God offers when we’re struggling with isolation. Like the Psalmist, we can cry out to God in our loneliness. His heart is always our home, no matter where we are.

Even in the midst of a hospital room, we can find God waiting there for us — waiting in the night, holding us through the long darkness.

 

[bctt tweet=”We can cry out to God in our loneliness. -@SaraRWard:” username=”incourage”]

If You Had One Week Left to Live?

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Stowed away in our attic, I dusted off my high school diary. Paging through memories of old, I am instantly transported to a time in my life when school, friends, boys, and parents triggered to-do lists and declarations, resolutions, and remorse. A time when affirmation was currency and attention was the payment. Years have passed since those musings, but hidden in the heart of this brand new, fifty-year-old woman, still lurks glimpses of that sixteen-year-old.

Lose weight. Stop snacking late at night. Get more organized for class. (Yes, some of my resolutions have spanned the decades.)

Talk quieter. Talk less (Does anyone else still hear their grade school teacher’s reprimand?)

But my heart swelled when I read the next challenge:

Look for a lonely girl and become her friend.

While that resolution stemmed from the high school girl’s yearning for a collective identity, some things never change. I had no idea that a heartbeat of my book, “Just Open the Door: How One Invitation Can Change a Generation,” was already etched in my diary.

Whether sixteen or seventy-six, our hearts ache to be included. We crave connection. Knitted into our DNA is a hidden longing for deeply-rooted relationships that journey through life with us: someone to notice, acknowledge, and see us right where we are with no ulterior agenda. And while no one can know us fully or fill our intimate longing in the way that God can, He has designed us to come together in community because He created us for fellowship.

So with my old diary’s resolution in mind, I gathered the kids for our New Year’s family meeting.*  Every January, we carve out time to reevaluate and reflect on the past year. We ponder lessons learned, talk through challenging failures, and honor goals completed. As we mark the ways God has worked in our lives, we celebrate His goodness and then cast a vision for the new year.

This gathering began with a new twist. I have a box of conversation starters on our table that I printed out years ago, and one of them asks the question, “If you had one week to live, how would you spend your time?” Instead of creating the bucket list experience one might expect, we opened to 1 Peter 4:7-11. I urged the kids to examine Peter’s stated priorities and brainstorm ideas from this passage.

Before you continue, won’t you join me in reading and create your own list from Scripture? Peter casts a vision for our future. What does it include?

The end of all things is near; therefore, be alert and sober-minded for prayer. Above all, maintain constant love for one another, since love covers a multitude of sins. Be hospitable to one another without complaining. 10 Just as each one has received a gift, use it to serve others, as good stewards of the varied grace of God. If anyone speaks, let it be as one who speaks God’s words; if anyone serves, let it be from the strength God provides, so that God may be glorified through Jesus Christ in everything. To him be the glory and the power forever and ever. Amen.
1 Peter 4:7-11 (CSB)

Peter gave his own prognosis when he announced to the believers that “the end of all things is near” (v.7). He knew time was of the essence, but his priorities were not what we’d expect. If I announced to you, “The world is ending soon. What are you going to do?” You’d likely not reply, “I’m going to show hospitality.” I was shocked when I filtered this passage through the lens of that question. Yet if we had any doubt as to the importance of showing hospitality, loving deeply, and serving others, this is our answer without question.

As Christ followers, these are the expectations, and one of the easiest ways to show His love in a tangible, life giving way is to invite, include, and welcome others into community: to practice hospitality (and yes, to do it without grumbling).

January is the perfect chance for a fresh start — a time to reframe resolutions and cast a new family vision with kingdom purpose in mind. Love deeply. Open doors. Serve others. Create margin to pursue hospitality so that God may be glorified.

I can’t wait to hear what He does in 2020.

If Peter mentioned to you, “the end of all things is near,”
how would you spend your time?

*How to plan a family meeting: Take time this month to think back on 2019 and mark the ways you’ve seen God work personally in your own life, as well as your family’s. Express gratitude in tangible ways to those who have invested in your life and/or impacted the lives of your children. Write a note or invite them to “thank you” dinner. Outline core family values for the new year including specific ways you will serve on mission and extend hospitality in 2020.

 

[bctt tweet=”As Christ followers, one of the easiest ways to show His love in a tangible, life giving way is to invite, include, and welcome others into community. -Jen Schmidt (@beautyandbedlam):” username=”incourage”]

How to Deal With People Who
Try to Bring You Down

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I recently got an email at 3:30 a.m. from a subscriber to my blog. It was the second email I’d gotten from her, and it was filled with such harshness and contempt that it made me literally gasp out loud.

Her email was a stark reminder of a culture of meanness that has cropped up around us. It’s a meanness that is fueled by narcissism, by a wave of cynicism, and an over-appreciation for snark. This meanness is the stuff of playground bullies, bosses who mistreat their employees, and even blog readers who tap out cruel comments in the blue glow of their computer screen, while wearing their 3:30 a.m. brave.

Meanness and narcissism hold hands. Meanness says, “What I feel matters most. I have no empathy for you. If you are in the way, I will run you over.”

I wanted to type back the most awful, non-Christian response to the meanie in my inbox. But then I took a deep breath while standing in that tidal wave of meanness. I took three important steps, and maybe those three steps will help you if you’re having to deal with mean people in your inbox or in your everyday life.

First of all, allow yourself to feel the pain.

We should not ignore the pain we feel. We need to acknowledge the fact that meanness hurts. But we don’t have to let that pain fuel a negative response.

Second, refuse to seek revenge.

Revenge only perpetuates the cycle of meanness set in motion by your attacker. Sometimes, we simply have to walk away from mean people, which takes a great amount of strength, dignity, and courage.

Third, be kind.

Yes, we really can be kind — which is not to be confused with “we will be doormats.” We shouldn’t allow people to walk all over us, but we don’t have to fight fire with fire either. We can be grace-filled, even in the face of nastiness. However, if bullies aren’t receptive toward good will, there will come a time when you must turn away and walk toward those who will receive the kindness within you.

Take that kindness within you and turn it toward the hurting, the broken, the friend down the road who is going through a tough time.

Also (and yes, perhaps more difficult):

Be kind to the people who annoy you, 

To the telemarketer who calls over the supper hour,

To the kid who broke your favorite lamp,

To the employee who messed up the report.

It doesn’t mean we excuse bad behavior, but it does mean that we can choose kindness as one way to put the brakes on a cycle of meanness.

Someone once said this: “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” That’s great advice, but it’s not easy.

Mean is easy. Mean is a weak person’s disguise of strength and power. The harder, braver choice? Kindness. It’s one of the most underrated virtues of our time, but it’s rooted in Scripture.

The Apostle Paul wrote that we ought to make kindness part of our daily wardrobe.

Therefore, as God’s chosen people . . . clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Colossians 3:12 (HCSB, emphasis added)

What did that look like for me after I got that cruel email? I politely and briefly emailed the subscriber back, but I waited until the next day. I took a few moments to pray for her; it’s quite possible she was dealing with difficult circumstances in her own life.

Believe me, I wanted to be mean. (If you look closely, you can still see the teeth marks in my tongue.) But more than revenge I wanted this:

I wanted the cycle of meanness to end with me. 

I am learning that our attitudes are contagious. Our grumpiness is contagious. Our meanness is contagious. Our happiness is contagious. And our kindness is contagious.

This week, you and I will both face people who will step on our toes. Someone will drop a passive-aggressive comment in your Facebook feed. Your spouse will pick a fight. The TSA agent will get snippy. But you? You will have a choice what to do next.

Choose kindness. It’s contagious.

 

[bctt tweet=”Our attitudes are contagious, so let’s choose kindness. -@dukeslee:” username=”incourage”]

A Prayer of Trust

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Let love and faithfulness never leave you;
bind them around your neck,
write them on the tablet of your heart.
Then you will win favor and a good name
in the sight of God and man.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.
Do not be wise in your own eyes;
fear the Lord and shun evil.
This will bring health to your body
and nourishment to your bones.
 Proverbs 3:3-8 (NIV)

Even though we wish we could see all that is to come this year, let’s loosen our tight grips of control and with open palms, trust in God because His goodness, love, and faithfulness are real.

Lord, there is so much ahead of us that we can’t foresee, so much we wish we could control but can’t. We hold all the unknowns, questions, desires, and longings out to You. We want to trust You, but we acknowledge that we need help with that sometimes. Help us to trust You with the year ahead, and thank You that we can be anchored in faith when we are tethered to You.
In Your name we pray, amen. 

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”]

You’re Right Where You’re Supposed to Be

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The Christmas tree still stands happy and bright at our house, the wreath still hangs on the door, and half the neighborhood must feel the same way I do: I’ll get to it, but just not yet.

Most years, I relish the first few days of the new year. I set aside a couple of hours to sit down with my planner, a goal-setting journal, and a cup of coffee. I plug headphones into my ear, closing myself off from the noise of the world (i.e. the living room where my desk is), and I enter into intentional me-and-God-dreaming time.

It’s one of my favorite things to do whenever January rolls around. It helps me envision the coming months so I can live with and on purpose.

But this year is starting off on the same note last year ended with. Instead of a bang, it’s more of a hum, and the thrill of what’s to come is missing.

It’s strange not to feel the excitement, especially when I’m someone who loves starting new things and having vision and a call toward something. I’m usually the person telling other people about living with intentionality and how important it is to have that one word for the year.

And because this is all unusual for me, I’m paying attention. I’m taking note of the emptiness that doesn’t feel sad or weird but peaceful. I’m reframing it and calling it open space. I’m noticing my pace and how slow it is. It’s slow but not behind. It’s right on track, to the same step as God’s. I’m recognizing the shift in my heart for the place God has me in as a work-at-home, suburban mom, whose basic day mostly involves managing other people’s lives, making sure there’s food for dinner and that homework is done. It’s a life I didn’t aspire to or even want in my 20s, but here I am, actually enjoying it and seeing God in it now.

It’s not better or more right or even more glorifying to God one way or the other — whether you’re in a similar season in life or you’re in a season of adventure and risk. Both are ordained by God, and God is everywhere — in every season, at every pace, in every in-between place.

I often wonder about the unwritten parts of Jesus’s life, about the moments when He might’ve felt the ordinary to be ordinary, even though He was God. Did He relish it — this being human, of making His home here on this earth, of dwelling with us? Did He delight in the repetition of the small things, knowing all things? Did He look forward to the day when He would get baptized by John, His cousin, and thus begin His years of ministry?

He was familiar with it all — the mundane and the miraculous, the boring and the busy, the years when one faded into the next and the year when His life would come to an end and He would make eternity a reality for us.

He calls it all good, every part.

Every time I ask God if there’s something I should be looking for — a vision He might be showing me that I’m missing or a yes or no I should be saying or a path I should be taking — He says the same thing back to me:

You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Even now, with no word for the year or goals or planner in hand, with the Christmas tree still twinkling, oblivious to its time having passed, with no plan for how I should grow or what I should become this year, God says it’s okay — good even, and I’m starting right there.

 

[bctt tweet=”Maybe you need to hear this too as you start the new year: You’re right where you’re supposed to be. -@gracepcho:” username=”incourage”]

Not Perfection but Humbleness

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She was bought by my grandma Sweetie in the 1960s and survived decades of Christmases, along with Joseph, Baby Jesus, and an assortment of gentle, porcelain barnyard animals — despite the perilous attentions of eight grandchildren. For the past decade, she has lived at my home, most of the year tucked in the dark safety of a high shelf, wrapped carefully in the same tissue my grandma had wrapped her in, in a box marked “White Porcelain Nativity” in my grandma’s unmistakable script. But this year, a member of my family went rearranging the precious contents of my high-up shelf in search of some other item, pulling the whole box down and setting it on the washing machine. Then another member of my family came by later and very kindly started a load of laundry — without thinking about the way a fairly light box might travel across the smooth wobbling surface of a washing machine on the spin cycle.

I found them on the floor behind the washing machine days later, and after a quick inspection, all seemed to be intact, encased in clouds of tissue. But a couple weeks later when I pulled the nativity set out in anticipation of Christmas, I found that Mary had not, in fact, fared so well. Gracious Mary, treasured possession of my dearly loved gram, had broken knees and a snapped halo. I was heartbroken and embarked on a frenzied rotation between super glue, Internet searches for rare porcelain figurines, and bemoaning the general carelessness of every member of my household. I managed to get her knees reattached, but the halo was basically hopeless—in too many small shards to reconstruct. The Internet searches were just as hopeless, because not only was my Mary old, she was rare—made in West Germany, which of course, no longer exists, much like my own dear grandma. It was one of those moments where a small thing suddenly makes everything seem broken and irrecoverable. Still I didn’t have the heart to wrap them up and put it all away. But you can’t really have a nativity and leave Baby Jesus with just Joseph and a couple of sheep, so I set out the entire little Holy Family, broken halo and all.

I’ll be honest, in the days that followed, it hurt a little to look at her. But daily as I passed her, saw her cracked, repaired knees and partial halo with the jagged un-shiny edge showing, she seemed to fit more and more in with this house of imperfect relationships, deeply broken bodies, and a good amount of dog hair and second-hand furniture. I am not opposed to the beauty and sparkle of Christmas. In the face of the enormous love and sacrifice of that first Christmas night, what can we do but offer our best, most beautiful, most joyful songs, decor, generous hearts, and homes? But how quickly I turn this all back on me and flip a reflection of His glory into a reflection on me and my skill, my competence, my glory. I would also not be the first to observe that these same songs, this gift-giving, and even decor often bear little resemblance to what occurred the night of Jesus’ birth — even our nativities.

But all those years I didn’t treasure the porcelain crêche only because it was old and valuable, or because it was beautiful, or even because it had belonged to my grandmother. No, Mary and Joseph gazing with wonder and delight at the newborn baby set out atop my dining room hutch also served as a regular reminder of what the season is really about, lest I become totally distracted by my house full of trees, cookies, Scandinavian elves, and twinkling lights, which are all festive but meaningless components of this annually distracted and sometimes derailed observation of the entrance of our Savior into human history. Simple Mary and her husband and Jesus in the manger were a frequent visual meditation for me amid the busyness and food. This is the thing, though, broken Mary is even better at this. With her cracks and snapped halo, she now reminds me even more so that no matter how accurately or inaccurately she has been depicted throughout the centuries, real Mary was, like me, broken and in desperate need not of repair but total restoration. Her worthiness lies not in her perfection but in her humbleness.

December has come and gone, with its various celebrations and casualties, and Broken Mary has interestingly turned out to be more encouragement than indictment. Now January is here and I still cannot put her away. In this next season of obsessive self-improvement, which rapidly devolves into self-castigation, she is daily evidence that all things — bodies, relationships, vocation, avocation, my own spirit — will ultimately wind up busted if left only in my hands.

But like so many other rendered Marys, with their merits and flaws, she shares one thing that is absolutely, perfectly right . . . her look of total amazement and love for the baby before her. Because this is the starting point, bowed down without even a glance in the mirror to adjust the lopsided halo or camouflage the ugly gray crack traversing her robe. She is too absorbed with Jesus to be consumed by her imperfections. I am glad, though, that I fixed her knees. She needs her knees. As do I — in December . . . and January . . . and February . . . And actually I am okay now with the fissured line of glue and even growing grateful for the jagged, cock-eyed halo. Because that look of humble wonder was not crushed — though the baby she watches one day would be — and her total, imperfect adoration prods my own spirit, in my home, with its brokenness of place and people, to also be imperfectly ready daily for the grandest entrance of perfect Love and Grace — and gratefully, humbly amazed.

 

[bctt tweet=”Her worthiness lies not in her perfection but in her humbleness. #mothermary -Juliet Skuldt:” username=”incourage”]

If You Ever Criticize Yourself, Try This . . .

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I’m seated on a chair in the middle of the kitchen in my childhood home, a towel draped around my neck like a makeshift cape. My mom and grandmother read instructions from the back of a box. How hard can a home perm be? The curl-inducing chemicals smell like a lab experiment gone wrong. I go back to third grade looking like a poodle. Has anyone else had this experience?

I thought of my home perm last week when we took our granddaughter to get her first haircut. (God brought her mama into our lives when she was twenty so, yes, we’re young grandparents.) Eula is two years old and brought her favorite stuffed animal, Fifi, with her to this momentous occasion.

The stylist hands Eula a small mirror and tells her to look into it. It’s an attempt to help her sit still, and it works. Eula leans toward the mirror until she’s so close her breath makes fog on it. She’s intrigued by her own face. Watching her, I’m struck by how differently she and I look into mirrors. Even way back during the home perm era, I’d already learned to search for flaws, not look with fascination.

When a new year begins, many of us take a closer look at our lives. We reflect on the past and look forward to the future. We often do so with a harsh eye; it’s so easy to be hard on ourselves. We remember our mistakes. The goals we didn’t meet. We tell ourselves, “This will be the year I get it right,” as if everything that’s come before has been wrong.

But what if we try Eula’s approach instead? What if instead of looking with criticism we look with curiosity? Criticism condemns, curiosity invites us to learn. Criticism shuts us down, curiosity opens us up. Criticism holds us back, curiosity inspires us to grow.

Curious questions sound like . . .

– What did I learn last year?
– How did I grow?
– In what ways have I become stronger?

Then we can ask how we can continue learning, growing, and becoming stronger in the new year.

This kind of thinking doesn’t come naturally to us. Studies have found our brains notice and remember what’s negative more than what’s positive. This makes sense for survival: recalling the stove is hot takes a higher priority than the laughter we shared with our sister while we made cookies.

Our negativity bias can be helpful when we apply it to specific practical circumstances (the hot stove). But when it turns into self-condemnation, it becomes harmful.

The Mayo clinic says the benefits of making our thinking more positive include:

• Increased life span
• Lower rates of depression
• Lower levels of distress
• Greater resistance to the common cold
• Better psychological and physical well-being
• Better cardiovascular health and reduced risk of death from cardiovascular disease
• Better coping skills during hardships and times of stress

Disclaimer: Positive thinking does not mean being happy all the time, sugar-coating difficulties, or walking around with a fake smile plastered on your face. That’s not helpful either. I struggle with anxiety and depression. Pollyana positivity isn’t beneficial, or even possible, for me. Realistic positive thinking means approaching our lives, and ourselves, with curiosity rather than condemnation.

The Apostle Paul said, “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable — if there is any moral excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy — dwell on these things” (Philippians 4:8).

When we read these verses, we tend to apply them to our external surroundings. But what if we applied this to how we see ourselves too? (If that sounds tricky, start by imagining how the person who loves you most would describe you.)

Yes, let’s hold the mirror up to our hearts and lives as we start 2020. Let’s find ways to keep learning, growing, and becoming stronger. As we do, let’s also remember that curiosity is more helpful than self-criticism. Let’s resolve not to use condemnation as motivation when the God we serve only uses grace.

And no home perms. Not this year. Not next year. Not ever.

Want help seeing yourself and your life differently this year? You don’t have to do it alone. Join Holley’s *free* Strong, Brave, Loved Online Bible Study — it starts this week and there will be lots of gifts for Study members.

 

[bctt tweet=”Let’s resolve not to use condemnation as motivation when the God we serve only uses grace. – @holleygerth” username=”incourage”]

Soaring into the New Year

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The doorbell rang. My heart leaped as my three dear friends came bearing gifts and plates of food for our feast. I set out my favorite tea pot and cups. My friend Amy busied herself in the kitchen brewing chai. The aroma of cloves, cinnamon, and ginger swirled through the house. Terry warmed the homemade tortillas with papas and soyrizo. My tongue anticipated the flavors of her homemade roasted salsa. Yasmin burst through the door balancing a cardamom coffee cake on a platter.

Before I even took a bite, my heart was full.

We only gather a few times a year so this time together is sacred. When our kids were younger, we were together almost weekly. We forged our friendship chasing toddlers at story times, chatting at park play dates, and nursing infants on the sidelines of games. We savored long afternoons sipping chai while the kids ran wild through the house. Husbands’ jobs, different schools, and diverse career paths now take us in different directions.

After almost a decade, we still try to find a day in January for our Word Party. The gathering is our chance to reflect on the past year and to look into the future with eager eyes. We each choose one word to embody our year. We commit to studying, following, contemplating, cradling, and dwelling on that one word for 365 days to see what God reveals.

Every year is different. Every year God teaches us something surprising through these words. It’s good for my soul to pause with these friends and share what we have learned on the year’s journey.

I filled my plate and told my mama-friends that my word for 2019 was “abundance.” Perhaps this was a bold choice after several years of navigating grief and transition in our family. I was eager for a fresh start, a new perspective.

Deep in the earth of my heart, I felt like God was inviting me into a harvest season after a long stretch of pruning and resting. Looking back, now I know God started by excavating some of my misconceptions about scarcity and abundance.

Scarcity worries about not having enough. It’s focused on the worst-case scenario. It’s concerned about what everyone else thinks. It believes that someone else’s success or happiness will put you behind.

This past year, God showed me His abundance is quantified in a different way from the scarcity mindset and the prosperity the world chases. We cannot hustle, strive after, or claim entitlement to abundance. Abundance is not about storing up material wealth but embracing the abundant life God has fashioned just for us.

In John 10:10, Jesus says, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”

I am learning to pivot away from the guilt, shame, and fear the Enemy taunted me with after my husband’s death. God gifted me a new husband, a new house, a new church family, a new chapter in life. He invites me to open these gifts and stop apologizing for them.

Psalm 31:19 reminds us: “How abundant are the good things that you have stored up for those who fear you, that you bestow in the sight of all, on those who take refuge in you.”

God has good things for all of us, starting with His lavish love and grace. Sometimes He gifts us community to lift us up. Sometimes He entrusts us with resources. Sometimes He may bestow on us a talent, a passion, or a gift that can be used for His glory. Abundance allows us to accept His good gifts and share them with others without hesitation.

Friend, is there a gift God’s given you that you are leaving unopened or burying in your closet?

This year God brought me some unexpected blessings, including a book contract and opportunities to speak and share His glory story with others. These were seed dreams of mine that today the Master Gardener chooses to grow.

Living in abundance isn’t about flaunting our prosperity or gifts. It’s an invitation into gratitude and generosity. I know in my heart the depth of my poverty apart from God so I am eager to share His abundance with those around me.

I believe God has abundance for you and me in this new year. Let’s lean in to look for it. Let’s stop acting like the Israelites in the desert who complained about the manna from Heaven. Let’s not be like that one servant who buried the talent entrusted to him for fear of losing it. Let’s live in abundance, pointing others to Christ with our attitudes and generosity.

This weekend my friends and I will gather again for our Word Party. This time, our friend Amy will host at her new place in Southern California. We will reflect and reveal our words for 2020. I’m sure there will be an abundance of food and chai, laughter and tears. This year, I’m spreading my wings and choosing the word “Soar” to guide me into the new year.

What’s one word or theme that you will be following in 2020?

*Dorina has a new devotional book, Walk, Run, Soar, that will be released in Fall 2020. Sign up for her Glorygram here and get all the insider details about this exciting new project!

 

Happy New Year!

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Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.
The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.
2 Corinthians 5:17 (ESV)

Wishing you the happiest New Year’s Day!

May you feel peace in knowing that you are a new creation in Christ, that He will renew your heart and offer fresh mercies every day. May you resist the temptation to give into the pressures to fill up a blank calendar with lofty resolutions. May you remember that you are more than any goal met, any resolution kept, any to-do list checked. You are loved, just as you are.

Happy New Year (and new decade), friends!

 

[bctt tweet=”Happy New Year (and new decade), friends!” username=”incourage”]

You Don’t Have to be Okay to be Here

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I just wanted to hide. I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone. I escaped into the bathroom, leaned my back against the door, unbuttoned the top button of my jeans, and exhaled. Here, I could be myself. I didn’t have to carry the conversation, suck in my gut, worry about how loud the kids were being, or keep the party going. I didn’t have to balance the topics of conversation like I was walking a tightrope. Anxiety rippled through me when a guest would bring up religion, politics, or women’s rights. I was always on the other end pulling people back to the center, casually swaying the tide of hot topics back to the weather, sports, or how well the kids could color.

I love hosting, but this year I would do it differently. No more escaping to the bathroom like years before. No more controlling conversations or people. No more trying to meet everyone’s expectations. This year would be different.

I rolled out the butcher paper across my dining room floor. With makers and artistry, I had one agenda — change the way I approached hospitality this Thanksgiving. One phrase kept coming to my mind as I prepared for the thirty people who would be coming over for our traditional barbecue turkey, homemade cranberry juice, and sweet apple pie. This phrase was for our family and friends, but it was mostly for me. It would be my mantra. I would repeat it when worry would creep in and fear would tempt to cripple me.

Across the paper, I wrote these words: You don’t have to be okay to be here. It wasn’t the prettiest sign, but it conveyed the message perfectly. With scotch tape and a stool, I taped this sign to my front door. I stepped back and smiled inside. This year really would be different.

I am so tempted to make other people feel okay, to carry the weight of managing potential tensions. I want everyone to feel at peace, happy, and known. I want to protect people from stepping on toes or topics that are triggers. When I give in to this temptation, I always feel anxiety. Anxiety is trying to control the uncontrollable. In reality, I can’t control what people say, feel, or think. I can’t protect people from their pain.

But I can do this: I can release people back to Jesus. I can let God hold them, care for their needs, and comfort their souls. I am not God. I can never love others as well as He does. I can, however, invite people into my home. I can give people a place to come out of hiding. I can love them without trying to fix them. I can let their mess spill out into the conversation without cleaning up behind them or doing damage control. I can let people be themselves.

I don’t have the spiritual gift of cooking or hosting or decorating the table. But I can let go of my need to control the environment, people, and their experiences. I can trust that if I open my doors in love, that love will, in fact, meet them — that Thanksgiving will be different. Maybe not for the company, but for me. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to be okay. I can just show up in love, release control, and trust that God is on a mission to love everyone who walks through my doors.

What anxiety do you need to let go of this Thanksgiving?

An Easter Prayer

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Lord,

Thank You for the gift of HOPE
You gave us on Easter morning.
Because of You we know
That no problem is too difficult
And even death does not have power over us.

Thank You for the gift of JOY
You gave us when You were resurrected.
Because of You we know
That no matter how challenging life may be,
In the end we will rejoice again.

Thank You for the gift of LOVE
You gave us when You laid down Your life.
Because of You we know
That there is no sin too great to separate us
and we are incredibly valuable to You.

Thank You for the gift of LIFE,
You gave us when You left the tomb.
Because of Easter we know
this world is just the beginning
and we will spend forever in heaven with You.

We celebrate You, JESUS,
With hearts full of praise and gratitude
For who You are and all You’ve done for us!

Amen.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him.
Romans 15:13 (NIV)

The Source and Sustainer of New Life

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I dream of being a gardener. You know, one of those green-thumb, botanical life-givers who not only knows how to put plants in the soil and make them grow but also knows how to keep them alive. Maybe even one of those people who can look at a single leaf and quickly rattle off the scientific name (otherwise known as the two-part binomial. Yes, I looked it up.).

Alas, my gardener dream isn’t likely to come true. Not only do the pace and responsibility of my day-to-day life with six children and a full-time job absorb the time needed for such an endeavor, I have an itty-bitty problem I can’t seem to overcome:

I kill green things.

It’s like I have poison in my fingers, and every green thing I try to grow ends up dead in my hands. In my defense, I’ve managed to keep every one of my offspring alive, which I celebrate with great joy. Thank You, Jesus. But plants? Flowers? Hanging baskets and herb gardens? I’m the caretaker of the dead. My house is a graveyard of gardening dreams.

Even so, every spring I drive myself to Home Depot and spend a small fortune buying annuals to plant around the outside of my house. Reds and purples, yellows and pinks. Pansies, petunias, impatiens and geraniums. The more color, the better. The more plant life, the better my life.

Until, of course, they die. As lovely as they are when I put them in the ground, they don’t keep their color — or life — for long, God help me. By July, the plants I so lovingly cared for gasped a final goodbye. My husband remarks with a smirk: “How about we take the money we spend on flowers and just throw it away? Skip the work and save time.”

“Hardy-har-har. Not funny,” I tell him. And then I get back to work digging the holes that will become my flowers’ tombs. No one can accuse me of a lack of effort or good intentions.

This past week, I was hanging out in the book of Mark, chapter four to be exact. And in this particular part of Mark’s Gospel, Jesus talks a lot about seeds and plants and keeping green things alive. Although I’ve read His words here multiple times, a new story caught my eye:

This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how.
Mark 4:26-27 (NIV)

The kingdom of God is like the seed that grows, regardless of our understanding or attention. Its growth is guaranteed, and its longevity is eternal. In other words, when it comes to spiritual botany, God is always at work even when we are not. And what He plants won’t end up a graveyard.

Lately, as I’ve watched the news and engaged in hard conversations with friends in places of suffering, my heart weighs heavy with all I don’t understand. At times, it appears as if life is withering and God is absent or uninvolved. I ache for this broken world filled with such pain. It seems everywhere I look I see death and destruction and disappointment. And I wonder if any good can come from so much that is wrong.

Can God bring life from what appears already dead?

And then I read Jesus’ words again. And I’m reminded that ours is a God of life, not death. He entered into the human experience, taking on mortality, so we would always, always have hope of new life.

He’s a Gardener of green things, living things. What He plants grows. What He nurtures thrives. What He loves blossoms.

So while I may never master my green thumb, I love a Master Gardener. He is tending His seeds even now, doing work I can’t see and performing life-giving miracles I’ll never comprehend. His kingdom is one that will never end. And that means, even when I sleep, I can rest. Because tomorrow will be filled with the color of new life.

When Your Heart Doesn’t Feel Light

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I wrapped my arms around my almost three-year-old nephew’s small body. His puffy blue coat made it hard to hold on, so I constricted my arms tighter.

“Where we goin’, Liza?” Noah asked.

“We’re going on a sleigh ride. You know, like in Jingle Bells?” I started to sing softly. “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh—“

“Hey!” he sang.

I laughed. “Exactly. We’re just like Jingle Bells.”

We sat on the sleigh, which was hardly a sleigh at all (instead, it was more of an open tractor bed), and looked out at the night surrounding us. It was our community tree lighting. There was hot chocolate, roasting marshmallows by an open fire, Santa visits, and live Christmas songs. But the most exciting part of the night was, by far and away, the sleigh ride.

Two large horses were hooked to the front of the sleigh. Bells tinkered whenever they shook their manes.

“Woah,” Noah murmured softly. “Those are awesome horses.”

The horses began to walk forward, and the sleigh took off with a slight jolt. Noah grabbed onto my legs, but after a few moments, he relaxed. Even in the dark, I could see the way his eyes lit up. Everything he saw — every Christmas light, every outline of a reindeer on someone’s back porch — he pointed to, letting out a delightful gasp.

“Are you having fun?” I asked.

“This is fun!” he said. “This is really, really, really fun!”

In three-year-old language, that was his way of explaining his pure, unadulterated exuberance. As I held him on my lap, I watched the way he pointed to each thing he saw. He sees more than I can. Or maybe he’s just better at noticing.

We got off the sleigh, and as we walked, I listened to the way people sang Jingle Bells and Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. You could almost feel the community’s Christmas spirit in a tangible way. And yet even while I felt deep gratitude for seeing the delight in my nephew’s eyes, I also felt a clash of sorrow amidst the palpable joy.

I could hear Judy Garland’s voice in my head, singing:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight

But the truth is, my heart isn’t light. My troubles aren’t out of sight. Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean everything is merry. I know you know this, too. I know your heart may be feeling just as heavy as mine. It often feels that in the gleam of the Christmas lights our hardships seem harder and our grief heavier.

And yet, God sees us exactly as we are.

In this season, when my heart feels weary and worn down with grief, when I become overwhelmed by how hard these mid-December days can be, I choose to remember who God is.

Emmanuel. God with us.

He is coming, but more than that, He is here. He dwells among us right now — this miracle of Christmas, of Christ coming to dwell with us, is not something to celebrate merely during Advent but every single day of the year.

He has not forgotten you. He is beside you even now — especially now.

Noah and I went on the sleigh ride again and again that night. My heart started to feel lighter the longer I stared at him and his almost three-year-old wide-eyed wonder. My grief didn’t fade, but something shifted within me.

I could feel room for both joy and grief in my heart. Not one or the other, but room for both.

But more than that, I could feel the presence of Emmanuel, God with us.

Wholly Welcome

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My soundtrack as of late has been this playlist I created of autumn piano tunes. They’re soft, they’re contemplative, and they’re a wee bit melancholy.

All things I could say of myself.

It’s taken me over forty years to be okay with identifying as a joyful melancholy, but that is exactly what I am. I love a moody song. Grey days and the early sunsets of late fall and winter are my jam. I incline in the direction of Eeyore in my sighing and slight pessimism. I’m particularly gifted in dreaming up worst-case scenarios. My humor bends towards wry. I’m a writer, and melancholy spurs my inspiration.

I’m also an Enneagram four, and they say we’re made of melancholic stuff. So really, I’m right on track.

All that is true. But there is still joy in my heart and sparkle in my soul. The love of Jesus lights me up, especially when I’m talking about the love He has for His daughters. I’m not a sad or downtrodden personality. I smile far more often than I frown. In high school, my nickname was Smiley.

I rock the grey space that stands between the black and white of joy and moody. Because of that, November is my month.

The days are cloudy and grey, the skies dark by 5 pm. We’ve started hunkering in at home, giving into the dipping temperatures and pull of the couch and a good book. We’re cooking comfort food; the slow cookers are unearthed and the ceramic stockpots are back in rotation. It’s soup season. Root vegetables are appearing on countertops, and twinkle lights are strung. We’re thinking about dipping our toes into the holidays, maybe wrapping a gift or two here and there.

November is the perfect in-between month. A time to prepare and putter in the kitchen. A time to gather in and come together. A time of expectation of what’s yet to come and thankfulness for what has been.

The calendar says November, and my heart says holiday season.

Now, when I say holiday season, I mean the entirety of the holidays which, for me, start in September with back-to-school and go through January 1st. So, as far as I’m concerned, we are smack dab in the middle of holidays right now. In our home, we celebrate the holidays in a big way. We don’t mix them up or clump them together — there are no two-fers here! But sometimes the Christmas tree is up before Thanksgiving. Sometimes the pumpkins come out in August. Maybe it’s because I worked at a Hallmark store throughout high school and college (and still work for them now!), but I don’t mind Christmas in July. Or October. Or November. Or February. I just don’t feel like there needs to be a defined season of joy, or a timestamp on peace, or a cutoff on cheer.

Jesus didn’t arrive with a “Do Not Open Before 12/25” tag. He came for us all, all the time. In the grey days of November. In the summer heat of August. In the slushiness of March and the blossoms of May. When we’re looking for Him and when we’re running from Him. When our hearts are soft and open, and when they’re hard and closed.

In all seasons of the year and of our lives, Jesus comes for us.

Whether your week includes gathering for Thanksgiving with family and friends, mundane days at the office, a kid who has come down with the flu, or decorating for Christmas, you can celebrate everyday grace, the kind that delivers no matter what. We can celebrate everyday gratitude, no matter our circumstances. We can celebrate our God, who was both born holy and grew up experiencing the everyday that we live. A paradox in and of Himself — the Holy of Holies wearing everyday flesh — what an amazing God.

As we welcome the holiday season, it’s okay to be our whole selves — melancholy, joyful, or a mix of both. He welcomes us wholly at any time, in any space, in all of our seasons.

p.s. If you want to put your tree up, listen to a Christmas song, or just use peppermint mocha creamer in your coffee, go for it. You’re in good company.

After the Death of a Dream

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When my husband and I left Freiburg ten years ago, I thought it was the last time I would feel smooth, curved German cobblestones under the arches of my feet.

On those carefully placed stones, each one connected to the other, I once walked regularly until my legs hurt. In that city, I learned to ride a bike in a sea of traffic, the signal of my outstretched arm as effective as a car’s blinking red light. The smell of cigarette smoke, coffee breath, and fresh rain on stone and concrete will always remind me of some of my deepest conversations with those in Freiburg about who Jesus is and how He loves them.

The memories I kept of that unique city were like evocative pictures etched with joy and ache. Joy for the gift of having lived there as a foreigner, a learner, and a minister, waking to the wonder of finding God’s face in a culture that wasn’t my own but undoubtedly His. Ache for the way it has always reminded me of a dream that died.

We had felt so sure about the call to ministry on our lives even before we got married. It was the very thing that first connected us as a couple, the thing that took us from one address and assignment to another and eventually to Freiburg. Freiburg was one of our last stops, the last clear call we heard from God, our last hope to see if something in ministry might actually work out for us in the long haul. But what had once felt like the greatest purpose of our lives — both as individuals and as a couple — started to seem like wearing clothes in the wrong size. We wrestled to make it fit, constantly adjusting and readjusting the way we looked at the future.

After Freiburg, we moved back to the States and left full-time ministry, a move that led us slowly and gently into wilderness and silence.

We clung to each other as we wrestled through the wake of dreams dying. There were days of melancholy and longing, repeated prayers of pleading to be called back to what was, tearful nights and quiet, lonely dinners. It terrified me when these days piled up, one after another, seemingly void of God’s voice and any clear leading other than to love each other and try to build something together no matter how simple. The nagging feeling that we were doing something wrong or that we ourselves were wrong and not good enough to be in ministry followed me around like a ugly shadow. The silence of that season uncovered my belief that being in ministry was evidence of God’s favor, love, and delight.

But about three weeks ago, after years of walking in wilderness and then more years of being invited to birthing and building new dreams, we went back. I watched our kids walk on Freiburg’s cobblestone streets, making up games about which stones to step on and which to step over. I witnessed their eyes, fresh with curiosity and discovery, take in new scenery. I witnessed their mouths, trying new tastes and textures, receiving some and rejecting others. They tried communicating with new sounds and symbols and their view of the world stretched wider than it had been. Seeing their delight was like a spring resurrection of an old dream long gone being made into something colorful, vibrant, and new.

One afternoon on our trip, I met an old friend for a latte macchiato. As she and I sat across from each other, she went on to tell me that the years we met regularly to talk about who Jesus was and how to study the Bible gave her a sure foundation for her longstanding faith and the faith of her family today. I listened while taking bites of Apfelkuchen, her words and the rain crashing outside like a thousand pieces of all the things I thought were lost now here again, piling into puddles of what was and what can be.

I am amazed by the story God was writing all along and grateful for a glimpse of it after so many years of questioning and wondering what had gone wrong. As our kids splashed in the cool bächle streams that run throughout the city center, I marveled at our daughter’s laughter and contentment – her story unfolding before my eyes and in our family, now connected to Germany herself. Adoption hadn’t even been on our radar the last time we had stood there with those very stones under our feet. I saw then what I couldn’t see ten years ago: the death of my dream was not the death of God’s dreams for me.

Maybe you are facing the same death or facing the wilderness of waiting for an answer. Maybe right now nothing makes sense and you’re questioning who you are or how you fit. Behind the veil of silent seasons, loss, drudgery, and dreams come undone, know that you are deeply loved and delighted in. God is at work. He is building new things in you and for you and these days of wrestling, each one placed one after another like cobblestone, will serve to build a beautiful path forward. There are new things to come.