Look for the Light

Look for the Light

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I grew up on the central coast of California, a place full of natural beauty. We had the Pacific and wine country and hills that wove throughout the county. We were within driving distance of redwoods and mountains, and it snows every 18 years or so. But there was one thing we did not have: the Northern Lights. I now call Massachusetts home, and I’m much further north, but the chances of seeing them is still pretty darn slim.

I’d seen photos and videos before, putting the Northern Lights on my list of wonders I wanted to witness. I couldn’t imagine how amazing it must be to see the sky light up with shades of green and red, dazzling every onlooker in the darkness. I assumed that I would have to plan a whole trip to Scandinavia during peak season, careful to do what I could to get there at the right moment. And then, I’d have to pray it wasn’t overcast.

Deep down, I knew that seeing the Northern Lights would require planning.

And then, this summer, I was at a friend’s wedding in Georgia when my newsfeed filled up with images of the Northern Lights in Massachusetts. My friends and neighbors were capturing shots of the amazing and rare moment, and there I was, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So imagine my surprise when I sat with friends at a trivia night the other evening and suddenly, everyone was running outside to take photos of the sky. I couldn’t believe it and I shouted to my boyfriend to stop eating dinner and come take a look.

There, right over our little New England town, the sky was stained red, ebbing and flowing in breathtaking movement.

We finished trivia after placing 8th and when we went back outside, it had disappeared. As we drove back to my apartment, I felt a pull to find a dark place and try again to see what I’d hardly even taken in between rounds of questions about U.S. Presidents and 1990s hockey.

We turned toward a local lake and parked near the dock, the sky as black and starry as ever, but no sign of aurora borealis. It was starting to get cold and after a while, we decided to give up… when suddenly, over the horizon, a ghost-like vertical blob appeared. It felt like my eyes were playing tricks on me. But sure enough, it got stronger. I pulled out my phone to take a picture and it automatically went to “night mode.” What I saw on the screen was brighter and clearer than what my naked eye could take in.

You see, our eyes work like camera lenses in that they take in light and that’s how we can see in the dark. The more light you have, the more you can see. This is obvious when we think of daylight. But when it’s nighttime, we can’t take in a whole lot because there’s not enough exposure to light.

Cameras are different from our eyes because they can pull in more light, and therefore they pick up images like the Northern Lights better than our limited human vision. If I hadn’t opened my camera lens, I would have certainly seen faintly what the camera made plain: the lights were there and they were beautiful.

Sometimes, I’m watching for the Light of Jesus in dark seasons and I feel sad because I don’t see Him. In moments of lament or overwhelm, it’s easy to believe in only what we see or sense, but the beauty of God is that He is who He is, whether or not we see Him.

Just because I don’t feel God’s nearness doesn’t mean He is not near. Just because I don’t see His goodness doesn’t mean He is not good.

Psalm 119:105 (KJV)says, “Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”

When we see our lives through the lens of Scripture, we’re opening ourselves up to light when it’s otherwise dark. We’re looking with more exposure to a brightness that allows us to see the beauty we’d otherwise miss or see faintly.

Take heart, friend. There is beauty before you. You just need the right lens to see it.

The Real Monsters Aren’t in Haunted Houses

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“Did you sign up?” my roommate asked me as we lingered in our dorm hallway.

“Yes! And I got my boyfriend to sign up, too!” I replied, giddy with anticipation.

It would be the perfect Saturday evening. I looked out the window at the gold and red leaves scattered across campus and could picture it: Me in my plaid scarf and peacoat, looking adorably autumnal while sipping apple cider on a hayride.

Fellow first-year students loaded the old-school yellow bus, ready to pay our $10 fee to embark on a new adventure. We left our downtown college campus for the outskirts of the country, where a tiny ski hill had been transformed into a fall wonderland.

The ride was off to a bumpy start. I shared a seat with my boyfriend and kept sliding into him with every sharp turn. As the driver zoomed onto the highway, he nearly collided with a bread delivery truck.

Little did I know, the evening was about to get a lot scarier.

We finally arrived at our destination in one piece and climbed off the bus. We were told to meet in three hours and given tickets to the attractions. 

The fall adventure that ensued was not what I had in mind. 

We joined the line of people waiting to get on the hayride. When we reached the front, we realized too late that we were not in line for a hayride at all. I had inadvertently signed up for a terrifying haunted house – rated five skulls on the scary scale! Werewolves and mad scientists jumped out in strobe-lit rooms, and we were warned to watch out for rats as hissing air hit our ankles. I thought I might faint.

Just when I thought we’d survived the ordeal and could finally retreat to the chateau to sip that cider, a teenager dressed as a vampire informed me that we had only finished the first part of the haunted house. There were multiple parts! 

This time of year, we’re bombarded with spooky stories and decorations crafted to put a chill down our spines. But it’s much easier to admit that a jumpscare from someone in a mask frightens me than to confront the real monsters hiding in my closet: my fears about the future, my wonderings if whether work matters, the loneliness that creeps up on me when I least expect it.

What haunts your life?

Maybe you thought you’d be further along in your career by now, and you’re anxious about what that means for your future. Or perhaps a relationship that once brought you joy is in pieces, and now you’re scared of the unknown ahead.

The thing about our fears is that when we try to push them away, they don’t stay hidden for long. Have you ever laid in bed at night, only to have your mind replay every worry and whisper every what-if?

Fears fester in the dark, but in Christ, you have the power to bring them to light.

When we finally escaped the never-ending maze of haunted houses that cold October night, I was exhausted. Determined to redeem the evening, I convinced my friends we still had time for cider. We huddled in the building, unwinding our scarves and shedding our jackets for the warm, well-lit room with no monsters in sight.

We laughed about the night’s shenanigans as we sipped our steaming mugs. But as we made our way to the parking lot under the starry sky, my heart sank. It was empty. We had missed the bus! I had been scared of the fog machines and flashing lights, but now a deeper fear set in: how would we ever get home?

I felt panic rising. My boyfriend could see the tears welling in my eyes. “What are we going to do?” I asked, imagining us stranded forever. (I have always had a vivid imagination.)

He calmly reached for his flip phone and called his brother, who lived nearby. “He’ll be here in ten minutes,” he said, closing his phone with a reassuring snap.

Life is unpredictable. It’s scary, then it’s not, and then it’s scary all over again.

We’re not guaranteed a life without fear. Fear is a normal part of being human – and it’s a normal part of being a human who loves Jesus, too.

When fears and what-ifs surround me, I remember three things I took away from my college adventure to the haunted house:

  • Go toward the light. Darkness may surround you, but it doesn’t have the final say. God’s goodness and glory get the last word. When what haunts you feels overwhelming, remember John 1:5 (NIV): “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
  • Name your fears. There is power in simply acknowledging the monsters that hide under our beds. Sometimes, I think saying I’m scared makes me weak or shows a lack of faith. But when we name our fears, we can begin to move through them. And when we’re brave enough to name our fears, we can cast them on God because God cares for us. (1 Peter 5:7)
  • Don’t do it alone. When I realized we missed the bus, I panicked. But I wasn’t alone. Let others into your fears. Galatians 6:2 reminds us, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”  Those willing to walk through the scariest parts of life with you are the ones to hold onto. (That boyfriend became my husband!)

When fears keep you up at night, remember: just as a child with a nightmare calls out to their parent, you can trust that God — the Light of the world — will be with you through every scary moment.

Staying Curious When You Want to Run Away

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We’d been dating for several months when he dropped the bombshell.

In all fairness, he didn’t realize it was a bombshell. He just shared his political leanings, including how he and his family of origin typically voted in local, state, and national elections. It was a random conversation, nothing emotionally charged. Nothing to indicate a significant shift. Just information shared in passing between two people who were dating but still getting to know each other.

The problem? I was raised in a family that was rooted firmly and squarely in the opposing party.

I don’t remember how the conversation even started, but I do remember where we were and how I felt when it happened. The moment he identified his political affiliation, I felt like I had been slapped. We stood on opposite sides of an impossible war. There was no reconciling this difference. As much as we had in common, including our Christian faith, this was a massive and unbreachable divide. And just that fast, I considered ending our relationship. How could we possibly move forward?

I’m a bit embarrassed now to admit how shocked and appalled I felt at learning his political affiliation. I thought he was a good Christian man who loved Jesus and tried to follow Him in his day-to-day life. How could he side with a political party that seemed to be clearly on the opposing side? How could he identify with any party other than the one I voted for? My family history is thick with patriotism and men who served our country in the military during multiple international wars. I respected these relatives of mine, both living and deceased. A sense of national pride was core to my family’s identity. With one simple, offhand admission, my view of this person — as a man, a potential husband, and a believer — completely changed.

With the benefit of hindsight, I’m surprised how quickly I devalued and disregarded him because of our apparent political differences. To my young and idealistic self, this was a deal breaker, a relationship ender. There was only one seemingly right answer to this test question, and he’d answered incorrectly. Because I equated real faith with a specific political party, his political leanings made me question the legitimacy of his faith and thus the legitimacy of our relationship. And somewhere along the way, I’d come to believe you could only be in a deep and meaningful relationship with people you agreed with, especially about something this important.

When I told him as much, his face mirrored my own shock, but for a different reason. He couldn’t understand my disappointment or the arrogance and judgment that came packaged in my voting record. At first he thought I must be joking. Then his chuckle of laughter turned defensive. I don’t blame him. My rejection of him as a person had been quick and complete and was because of something he didn’t believe warranted such a divide.

By some minor miracle of grace, he forgave my arrogance and we continued the conversation. And it’s a good thing, too, because we’ve enjoyed a beautiful marriage together for more than two decades now. In those twenty years, we’ve walked through many elections and even more conversations. And I came to discover, not long after that initial conversation, that we had far more commonalities than differences when it came to our convictions. He was indeed a man of deep faith, a faith that in many ways was stronger than my own. I just hadn’t withheld my judgment long enough to stay engaged, to connect, and to listen.

It’s good to be principled, to hold deep convictions and live them out with consistency and passion. But when we love our principles and positions to the exclusion of the people standing right in front of us, we’ve lost sight of the gospel—our good news.

You see, Jesus entered into relationship with us when we were actively rebelling against Him. We stood on the opposite side of an impossible divide. There was no way to reach a compromise, no negotiating or converting. We were separated, completely and irrevocably. He had every right to exact judgment and walk away, to let us die in our isolation. He was 100 percent in the right, and we were 100 percent in the wrong.

But rather than walking away, Jesus walked toward, knowing we could do nothing to bridge the divide ourselves. Romans 5:8 (NIV) says, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Jesus chose to reconcile us to God at His own cost, taking on Himself the judgment we deserved. Why? Because He loves us.

Instead of rejection, grace. Instead of punishment, love.

Staying engaged in conversation with someone you disagree with is difficult under any circumstances, but even more so when the topic of discussion is emotionally charged. This could include conversations around parenting, politics, health care and choices, end-of-life decisions, religion, finances, morality, education, legislation . . . you get the idea. We have more than enough scenarios in which we might clash. How- ever, avoiding, retaliating, or shutting down difficult conversations and the people you disagree with actually causes you more harm than you realize. It stunts your spiritual growth, inhibits your emotional maturity, limits your pool of potential relationships, and may keep you in a place of loneliness and isolation. Few people want to be friends with a person who is always right.

Navigating difficult conversations isn’t easy. If you feel overwhelmed by or resistant to the idea, I get it. I would rather avoid conflict and tension at all costs. But we have a Jesus who, rather than dodging disagreements, pressed into relationships. That’s the kind of person I want to be too.

If conflict makes you want to shut down, tune out, or walk away, consider these five practices that can help you love well even when you disagree.

1. Stay grounded in your gospel identity. When different convictions and positions become a dividing line in our relationships, it’s often a result of misplaced identity. For example, if my identity is rooted in my political party, I will struggle to connect authentically with anyone who doesn’t share my position. However, you and I are called to find our identity in the saving love and grace of Christ. He defines who we are—not our various positions and affiliations. When we remember that our foremost identity is a sinner saved by grace, we will find it is much easier to connect with other sinners saved by grace.

2. Stay curious and ask questions. There is a direct re- relationship between my emotional state and my ability to stay curious. The more charged I feel, the less I’m able to stay curious. I find that simply reminding myself to stay curious keeps my emotions in check. How did they come to that conviction? What part of their story am I not aware of? Why might they feel so passionate about their position or so threatened by mine? Staying curious is not easy, but it is possible. And sincere questions are the open door to that kind of engagement.

3. Listen. Listening isn’t simply allowing someone to talk while you formulate your rebuttal. Listening involves your ears, your eyes, and your heart. True listening requires you to put a pause on your position and defense and instead connect with the person. It requires you to resist judgment and instead listen to the words, heart, and intent of the person speaking. It means staying in a place where you want to be in relationship more than you want to be right.

4. Communicate empathy. This may be obvious, but people want to feel heard, including you. Once you’ve listened and asked questions, find at least one connecting point to which you can honestly say, “I can see how you would feel that way” or “I understand where you’re coming from.” Empathy is possible even when you disagree. And it will go a long way to bridge a divide, even if neither of you changes your position.

5. Restate the value of the relationship. At the end of every hard conversation—and perhaps multiple times throughout—it’s critical that you remind yourself and the other person that what matters most is the relationship. This will keep you focused on the ultimate outcome you hopefully both want—a respectful, mature, thriving relationship—in spite of the potential messiness of the conversation. And if you persevere in your pursuit of this goal, you won’t just save the relationship, you’ll likely make it even stronger.

When you find out that someone you care about has a staunchly different opinion or belief than you, it’s so much easier to write them off or build an emotional wall. But what seems easiest in the moment won’t serve us or our relationships well.

It’s time to choose a different way, one that is more humble, curious, and compassionate.

This excerpt from Come Sit with Me was written by Michele Cushatt.

With the U.S. in the throes of election season, we knew this was the perfect time to share Michele’s words from our (in)courage book, Come Sit with Me: How to Delight in Differences, Love through Disagreements, and Live with Discomfort.

Let us send you the introduction and two FREE chapters so you can start reading right away! Sign up here.

When Your Neighbor’s Garden Is Untended

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There’s a house around the corner from mine, on a corner itself. There’s nothing remarkable about it. . . until you see the backyard. Each summer, someone in that house plants the most meticulous garden. We’re talking rows of corn, pumpkin vines trailing in a little patch, cucumbers draping over a tall arched gate, carefully plotted onions and carrots, tomatoes popping red among the greenery, watermelons, and whatever else I can identify as I peek in on daily walks or drives past that corner. There are also fruit trees — apples and pears and something else I can’t quite make out without actually trespassing. So I smile at the idea of whatever is growing in that corner of the yard.

It’s a beautiful little sanctuary, and I just imagine the sweet gardener making it all happen.

How cool, I think to myself. What a gift to cultivate a little bitty homestead right here smack-dab in the middle of suburbia. I sure wish I could, but my yard doesn’t lend itself to a new garden plot. I have a couple of raised beds tucked under the eave on one side, and that’s about all I can muster.

Then, over the last several weeks, months even, I noticed the produce in that sweet garden had become overgrown and begun to rot right where it was once so carefully tended. The watermelons are splitting. Apples lay brown and slimy underneath the tree. The corn stalks are brown and brittle-looking. The hardy tomatoes still pop bright red against the withering plants while whole onions lay on top of the soil, unearthed by who knows what.

Whoever once so carefully planted all of that glory has let it just go to seed, to rot and waste.

Now when I drive or walk past the corner house, I shake my head, tsk-ing under my breath. What a shame, I think to myself. A full-on harvest, just sitting there, ripe and waiting to be picked and enjoyed. Who would do that? Why would they do that? I wonder.

It’s hard for me to understand because as a rule-follower, I do think we are responsible for what we’ve planted, responsible for sowing whatever grows. It’s up to us to look for the fruit. Jesus talks a whole bunch about gardening, and sowing, and reaping, and plants, and weeds. He says our faith can be as small as a mustard seed and yet move mountains. He speaks of burning weeds, of threshing floors full of chaff, and whispers echo of the Eden that could’ve been. Shouldn’t we pay attention?

Of course.

But also, we must have grace when we see another’s untended garden.

I don’t know what’s going on in this neighbor’s life. For all I know, whoever carefully planted that garden moved out. Maybe they were injured, or got really busy with a new job, or just plain didn’t feel like keeping up with it. I’ve never even met whoever lives there, so it can’t be up to me to make judgments on what they’re doing with their garden, badly as I want to (and I’ve had to hold myself back from trespassing to pick my fill!).

Perhaps that owner looks out the window at the apples falling off the tree, and gives thanks for being able to spend time with an aging parent, instead of doing yard work. Maybe they see the vegetables, once excitedly planned for and now bruised and pocked, and give thanks for time well spent planting it with a loved one.

I think about my own garden beds, sitting empty and unplanted in my backyard. For the last several years, I’ve planted those two raised garden beds and worked on them all summer, but this year, for whatever reason, I just couldn’t pull myself together enough to do it. I was busy, it was hot, and I guess that was all it took to deter me. In the same way, I’ve thought about how easy it might be for a passerby to assume that the wear and tear on my home is overlooked or even intentional. We could use new siding, new windows, and definitely some landscaping. The kids’ toys stay strewn about longer than I’d like, and the fire pit needs a thorough cleaning out.

When I start to look with exasperation at the never-ending project list that is my house, I could reframe it with the same grace I’m learning to extend my non-gardening neighbor. I could remember the fun Friday nights spent with family and friends around that bonfire pit, laughing and talking till there was nothing but glowing coals. I could remember sunny Saturday afternoons when the kids played outside for hours. I could give thanks for my well-worn, lived-in, cozy home instead of just seeing repairs that need to be made.

Maybe it’s the same with that garden. Maybe for whatever reason, unnecessary for me to know, that gardener simply can’t get out to maintain and harvest it. Should I knock on the door to help? Well, that’s another post for another day. But for now, what I can offer is a small smile as I drive by, a hefty dose of grace, and nothing but kindness in my heart no matter what I see languishing in the garden — and that extends to my own home and heart too.

I can promise to try, anyway.

Be inspired this season with Anna’s devotional, Pumpkin Spice for Your Soul: 25 Devotions for Autumn. It includes 25 devotions on all things autumn, recipes, and tips for staying in the moment this season.

A Crowded Kitchen Is a Holy Place

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There was a time when I wore my ability to “do it all” as a badge of honor. Hosting family gatherings meant late nights, early mornings, and a constant whirlwind of activity. I wanted my people to be able to come to our home and completely relax. Every detail was taken care of, and no one had to lift a finger, because … well, I would make it all happen. But amid my well-intentioned frenzy, I missed out on the moments I was working so hard to create.

Last year, as I faced the prospect of another holiday gathering, I felt a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over me. I was pre-tired. That is not how I wanted to approach our time together. I wanted to be excited about it, not dread all the work and the weariness afterward.

With a mix of hesitation and hope, I reached out to my family with a simple request: “What meal would you like to bring, cook, and clean up for our Thanksgiving weekend? Roger (my husband) and I will take care of the main meal, but I would love for each of you to prepare a meal that you love.”

And friend, the response was overwhelming — not just in their willingness to help, but also in the enthusiasm with which they embraced the idea. Our adult kids started to call and brainstorm: “Can we do breakfast on Saturday?” and “I’ve got the best recipe for baked Hawaiian roll sandwiches!”

As I watched the plan unfold, I was reminded of one of my favorite verses that I love to share with others, and I need to apply often:

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”
Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 NIV

What a beautiful truth this turned out to be. By sharing the load, we weren’t just dividing tasks; we were multiplying joy. (And part of that joy? Seeing how my kids stepped up.)

I realized that in my previous attempts to shoulder much of the responsibility, I had inadvertently denied my loved ones the opportunity to contribute, feel needed, and be an integral part of our family tapestry. By letting go of control, I opened the door to a richer, more collaborative experience.

As I reflect, I’m struck by the second part of our focus verse: “If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.” How often had I been the one to fall — into stress, exhaustion, or frustration — with no one to help me up because I hadn’t allowed anyone close enough to see my struggle?

By embracing a community approach to hosting, I not only lightened my own load but created a support system where we could all lift each other up. When the turkey cooked twice as fast as expected, it wasn’t a crisis. It was an opportunity for teamwork as we rearranged serving times and moved our Code Names game to after dinner instead of before. Alone, this would have been a crisis. Together? It was a chance to bond by overcoming a challenge.

If you are considering a more collaborative holiday celebration, here are a couple of tips that might help you get started:

1. Ask early. The closer you are to your celebration, the harder it gets to ask for help. Ask now for people to plan a meal (or a dish or two if your guests are sharing just one meal).

2. Ask what their “specialty” is (or what they’d like it to be). I have one child who loves to cook breakfast and another one who is learning to make pasta. Let them do their thing. (And for the kid who doesn’t cook at all? He was in charge of garbage and recycling and helping with dishes.)

3. Have a “Help List.” Each year, before everyone gets to the house, I create a list of tasks that people can help with. In the past, when helpful friends and family have asked what they can do to pitch in, I’ve been stumped in the heat of the moment (and the kitchen). But with the “Help List,” I know exactly what is needed. Here are some examples:

    • Take the dog for a quick walk.
    • Create the cheese tray. (I have all the cheese, meats, pickles, olives, etc. in a drawer in the fridge.)
    • Set the table.
    • Set up the drink bar.
    • Fill the ice bucket.
    • Hand-wash big pots and pans.
    • Make coffee.

Having the “Help List” not only helps me, but it helps those I’m celebrating with feel that they’re a part of things.

As you approach your next family and friends gathering, I encourage you to embrace the wisdom of Ecclesiastes. Look for ways to involve others, to share both the work and the rewards.

Remember that in God’s economy, our need for help is not a liability but an opportunity for connection and grace.

Incorporate meaningful rest into your life, take care of your future self, and enjoy delicious recipes with Kathi’s new cookbook, Sabbath Soup: Weekly Menus and Rhythms to Make Space for a Day of Rest.

God Will Meet You There

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Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego replied to the king, “Nebuchadnezzar, we don’t need to give you an answer to this question. If the God we serve exists, then he can rescue us from the furnace of blazing fire, and he can[f] rescue us from the power of you, the king. But even if he does not rescue us, we want you as king to know that we will not serve your gods or worship the gold statue you set up.”
Daniel 3:16-18 CSB

God can rescue us, but even if He does not . . .

This, friend, is the power of peace.

We don’t keep our hearts from being troubled because God promises that bad things will never happen. Jesus Himself acknowledges that is this world we will have trouble. (John 16:33). But His peace goes before us and is with us; He has overcome the world! So no matter what happens here on earth, today or tomorrow or next year, our future is sealed! Does the degree of peace in your life show that you believe it?

So what happens after Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego’s bold refusal to worship Nebuchadnezzar’s statue? In a nutshell, Nebuchadnezzar gets really, really mad. He commands the three men be tied up and the furnace be turned up seven times hotter than normal. It was so hot, in fact, that the soldiers who carry the prisoners to the edge of the furnace are themselves consumed by the flames and die! Then Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego fall into the blazing fire.

And God meets them there.

When the king looks down into the furnace, he sees the three men walking around, unharmed, accompanied by a fourth person whom Nebuchadnezzar describes as “a son of the gods.” At this, the king commands Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to come out of the furnace. When they do, not a single hair on their heads is singed and not even a thread of their clothes smells like smoke.

And the king, who at first threatened to execute anyone who wouldn’t worship him, turns in worship to the only one who deserves it:

Nebuchadnezzar exclaimed, “Praise to the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego! He sent his angel and rescued his servants who trusted in him. They violated the king’s command and risked their lives rather than serve or worship any god except their own God.
Daniel 3:28 CSB

Like a flame leaping in the air, those words sear my heart: his servants who trusted in him.

Whatever is happening in your life today, you can have peace knowing God is in control. Your life is not dictated by an economic recession or a wicked king. God’s goodness cannot be thwarted by a hurricane or hurt feelings. Your life isn’t at the mercy of a layoff or leukemia or a loved one who chooses to stop loving you. Only Jesus can be your never-changing peace.

That’s His promise to you.

A PRAYER FOR TODAY

God, thank You for promising to always be with me no matter what fire or storm I face. I trust You. Continue to teach me how to choose Your peace over my own fear. This week help me cling to Your promises instead of my own anxieties. You are powerful and good. I believe that — even when I still have to endure hard things. Thank You that I don’t bear them alone. Amen.

From Create in Me a Heart of Peace Bible Study by Becky Keife

 

Read This if You’ve Lost Your Home or Feel Displaced

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We hadn’t been home in over 240 days — and it’s not because we were traveling the world.

It was a storm, the kind that is utterly predictable in Oklahoma. And yet, somehow, this storm brought on damage that we never saw coming. We were traveling the beaches of Florida, peacefully asleep in a hotel, when a storm back home dropped a massive tree on top of our house. When we returned home, one day after the storm hit, we saw our cozy corner of the neighborhood had been turned into a hub filled with generators, chainsaws, and more tree debris than a photo could possibly convey. I pushed back the tears welling in my eyes as my neighbor embraced me. How could wind move such a massively anchored tree? And how would we even begin to clean this up?

In the midst of all the chaos, a dear friend sent me a prayer in a voice recording. Sweaty, after an afternoon of anger-racking tiny branches, I let her voice play into my earbuds while I wandered the backyard. God, you care about the spaces we occupy, she prayed. As the recording played those words, I wondered if they were true. Does our actual physical context matter to God? Does our home really matter to Him? This grief was nothing compared to other parts of my story, yet I found myself wondering if God really cared about this seemingly “lesser” loss. The next few weeks became characterized by searching for that one pair of shorts, the kitchen spatula we accidentally packed away, and stories in scripture that would answer my burning question:

God, do you really care about the spaces we occupy?

The Old Testament is filled with stories of displaced people. Whether it’s deserts, foreign lands, or temporary shelters, God uses the physical location of His people to remind them of His promises. The story of Joseph is a prime example. Sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph is uprooted to a foreign land and imprisoned. He occupies the bottom of a well and the cold floor of a prison, but eventually, God intervenes in a way that lands him at the right hand to Pharaoh, ultimately bringing to fruition a plan that would restore his family, save a nation, and lead God’s people out of slavery. A stunning moment comes after his father Jacob dies. His brothers realize that the death of their father may pave the way for Joseph to seek revenge on them for having wrecked his life, but Joseph is moved by love for his brothers. With a spirit of forgiveness (that should give us serious pause), Joseph says: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” (Genesis 50:20 NIV). Joseph saw that God had been with him at each marker on the timeline of his life, and with the helpfulness of hindsight, Joseph’s faith had anchored him.

The evolution of Joseph’s circumstances gives me whiplash, but reading it through the lens of physical spaces awakens me to a sense of God’s provision for the long term. When I catalog all the places that Joseph finds himself — the bottom of the well, a prison floor, Pharaoh’s palace — I see the through line of not only God’s bigger story of redemption but also God’s presence with Joseph in every space he occupied. Joseph was never alone or forgotten; he was never not seen by God.

From the window of our rented downtown apartment, I prayed I could apply a bit of Joseph’s perspective to my circumstances. The dwelling place of our temporary rental mattered as much as my storm-torn house, because . . . even there, God was meeting with me. My folding chair in the window had become a backdrop to the story God was writing in my heart about place, community, identity, and home. I realized that the storm and this unexpected detour was never about me going back home, but about God making His home in me, awakening me to His work wherever I happen to live.

In Revelation 21:3, we see a beautiful glimpse of God’s ultimate plan for creation when John hears a loud voice declaring, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.” In the end, God will make His home with us forever. Heaven will come to earth and God himself will occupy this space. There won’t be a foreign context anymore because He will restore the order and safety of the Garden. Right now, I am remembering this hope as I unpack boxes in my freshly restored home. Indeed, God cares about the spaces we occupy because He occupies them, too.

Lord, come and make Your home in us — amen.

Who Is Your Everyday Hero?

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The flash flood and tornado warning sounded as I texted my son who was driving down Interstate 40 on his way to Boone, North Carolina for a football reunion. “They just canceled the App State University football game. I think you should turn around.”

We’d stalked the weather reports and a cancelled reunion never crossed our mind. For the North Carolinians who live hours from the coast, we mimicked the drill for our icy winter storm preparations. With bathtubs filled, gas cans ready for generators, and cozy candles to light, many NC friends tucked into bed awaiting additional alerts. While our area incurred minimal damage, nothing prepared our Western neighbors for the catastrophic devastation that shifted the landscape of North Carolina in hours.

Entire town centers wiped away. Weeks without power or running water. Lives lost. People still unaccounted for. It’s unfathomable.

Whatever you witnessed online doesn’t begin to cast a glimpse of the gruesome reality. Yet amidst the devastation, we also watched everyday heroes birthed amidst heartbreak. On Friday, ordinary folks hunkered down awaiting a storm, but by Saturday, they heroically, miraculously maneuvered through liquid mud.

Scared and sacred moments intertwined as hundreds of everyday heroes trekked miles on foot over downed trees, demolished roads, and through impassable terrain to find and save stranded strangers cut off from society. Neighbors helping neighbors. Requests that only twenty-four hours earlier would have seemed unimaginable. The marvel of the human spirit turned strangers into lifelong friends.

People rally amidst catastrophe.

With so much heaviness, thousands of everyday heroes representing varying social, economic, and political backgrounds descended on Western North Carolina as common folk — people like you and me — became the lifeline of hope and restoration for a hurting world. It’s still happening. The Church is flourishing as it puts on love and intersects the swing pendulum of emotions of the people: grief and gratitude, cursing and courage, anger and awe — all simultaneously simmering amidst water bottles and generators. No one asks for your voting preference or ID. The Church is no longer about a building or budget, denomination or specified expectations; the focus is only enveloping others with unquestioning care and compassion.

And while we react with awe to doors flinging wide open with sweeping gestures of hospitality to strangers, this is nothing new. Did you know that this kind of generous, radical necessity for hospitality began in the Old Testament and it wasn’t only modeled during times of disaster? It was part of their Mosaic Law – a mandate.

“And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not mistreat him (or do him wrong). 34 The stranger who dwells among you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.”
Leviticus 19:33-34 KJV

Throughout the Scriptures, God tells His people to welcome and love the stranger. Within the context of that ancient culture, the Mosaic Law laid out expectations for the host to house, offer food, wash feet, and keep their guests from harm — it was an obligation to focus on the stranger in need. Considered a breach of honor if either the host or the guest refused, strangers and even enemies were welcomed as guests. With no hotel, gas station, or grocery store on the corner, communities lived interconnected and their safety and survival depended on the kindness of strangers.

Does an obligation like this feel overwhelming? It sure does. I received so many texts this month saying something like, “The need seems daunting. I don’t know what to do.”

I believe one of Satan’s tricks is to paralyze us with uncertainty and assault our thoughts by mocking our inability. And yet I page through the Scriptures looking for the verse that states, “You’re scared? Unfit? Nervous to be out of your comfort zone? Then don’t bother because I need someone more capable.”

Nope, it never says that. Scriptures declare the exact opposite. Through His grace and favor God sees fit to use us when we’re completely and unequivocally unworthy and unqualified for the task.

God has given us everything we need to put on love and be an everyday hero in our own hometown. We don’t need a hurricane to shift the landscape of our neighborhood or workplace, school, or playground for His glory, but we need a softened heart sensitive to His spirit. With ears eager to hear and eyes searching for opportunities, every encounter matters to Him no matter how small it might appear.

A casserole meal doubled to share with an exhausted mom.
Fall leaves raked for the neighbor who is struggling.
A favorite coffee brought to a discouraged coworker.
A note of encouragement to a frazzled teacher.
Brownies brought to the house with an opposing political sign.

Everyday heroes write the story of their lives with unseen acts of hospitality and servanthood.

It’s in these everyday moments when the wonder of the gospel is revealed in a new way – an opportunity to be the image bearer of Christ, to be transformed more into His likeness so He gets the glory.

I’m still sad and overwhelmed, but I’m looking for stories of everyday heroes all around me. Won’t you join me?

I’d love to hear your story of an everyday hero who impacted your life.

Hurricane Milton had not hit at the time of this writing. Our heartfelt prayers go out to all those who are suffering through the devastation of that storm as well.

The Surprising Ways God Speaks

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Some Sundays are a sobbing-in-the-back-row kind of day, and this was one of them. The pastor had played a clip from The Chosen (a drama series about the life of Christ), and I couldn’t keep it together. After Jesus urged the disciples to throw their nets to the other side of the boat and try one more time, we watched as they scraped up just enough hope to obey and then beamed with joy and wonder at the hundreds of fish filling their nets.

I was desperate and broken that day, in the midst of a season watching my daughter suffer immense pain that was both undiagnosed and untreated. We’d spent months in doctors’ offices and pharmacies and emergency rooms. I’d done everything I knew and even a few new things in desperation; nothing had worked. I didn’t blame God, but I was starting to question whether or not He was with us or would ever help us.

The overwhelming emotion I felt that Sunday morning took me by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. For decades God has spoken to me using pop culture as a conduit of His truths and hope, wisdom, and strength.

Even as a child, I remember telling my mom about the first song I’d heard on the radio the morning my granddad died. “Mom, I heard ‘Lean on Me,’ and maybe God’s telling us to lean on Him or each other.” I’m not sure it was much comfort to her, but God’s unique kindness that day has stuck with me ever since.

God doesn’t just speak on mountaintops or in burning bushes, through hymns or even quiet times spent in Scripture. If we pay attention, He’ll give us exactly what we need, exactly where we are. He’ll give us strength in the struggle in the most creative ways. From a sunrise to a word from a stranger, from an intense prayer time to a superhero’s speech on the big screen, God is pursuing us and providing for us everywhere.

“But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”
John 14:26 ESV

By Mary Carver as published in 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle

What surprising way have you heard God speak? We’d love to celebrate His creative kindness together!

Remember, you are never, ever alone.

We Can Take Our Time and We Don’t Have to Fake It

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All throughout my twenties, I was involved in an extroverted, evangelical ministry. It took me a long time to realize that I didn’t really fit there. I remember the moment it was clear to me, though it would take years more for me to act on it. I was at a retreat, and the speaker, an Anglican priest, was talking about solitude. I don’t remember what he said; I remember the way he talked about faith and spirituality and how his way of being made me feel. And I remember feeling, from my head to my toes, that everything in me naturally leaned towards this contemplative way of being.

When I look back now, it all makes sense. Part of my childhood was growing up in Tokyo, where contemplative ways of being abound. And then later on, as a newer Christian, I can remember devouring books and how I would find my way to books by Henri Nouwen and other contemplative Christians without knowing they were named as such, and feel so at home in their words. All of it confirms what’s always been true of me:

I’m a contemplative soul.

When it comes to fashion, sometimes we try on lots of styles before we understand what colors and cuts fit our skin tone and body shape. Plus, our bodies shift and change over time. And sometimes we just plain change our mind about what we like and don’t like. It’s natural to want to look back and feel annoyed or upset at entire decades or seasons of the seemingly wrong fit, and wonder, why did I wear that? Or, why did I think I fit there? 

But there’s another way to look back at our younger selves. A gentler, kinder, and more helpful way to see and receive who we were then and who we are becoming now is to embrace how it’s all connected. We can acknowledge how something didn’t fit quite right, how we tried to wear it anyway, and also acknowledge the layers, nuance, and grace woven within those times. Styles, jobs, and dare I say political leanings can make sense for us for a time, and not for us forever.

Do you ever feel too old or too far along in whatever you are entrenched in to take a step towards coming home to yourself?

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to listen to the core of who God made you to be?

I’ve needed all these decades, these starts and stops, and life transitions to be right where I am today. It’s taken over four decades for me to be ready to start school and be trained as a Spiritual Director – a new journey and one that’s been an invisible odyssey in the making. I’m only a couple of months in and yet, over and over again, I find myself exhaling. All of it feels like one little homecoming after another. I am not too late. God’s shalom is not bound by the lies of “too late”, “too old”, and “should be by now”.

No matter how old we are, or what kind of season of life we are in, we can always take a step towards our own becoming.

God’s shalom — His wholeness and restoration — is always tending to our becoming.

God’s shalom is always reaching for our true selves, reminding us how intricately and intentionally we’ve been created in love.

Since the start of 2024, I’ve been carrying a breath prayer around and I’ve needed it all year so far. It’s a reminder that brings me back to the core of who I am and was inspired by Romans 12:9 in The Message, which reads, “Love from the center of who you are, don’t fake it.”

Pray this with me:

I can love from the center of who I am (breathe in)
I don’t have to fake it (breathe out)

May we lean into the center of who we are and who we’ve been created to be.

It’s not too late to lean into God’s shalom at work in your soul and your story.

Whatever your age and season in life, what part of your true self is reaching out from the core of who you are?  Through each twist and turn, how are you still becoming?

What to Do When the Polling Place Divides You

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I’m in the booth to your left, the one tucked up against the corner of the restaurant. It smells like fries and bacon, and the waitress brings two glasses of water in tall mason jars.

I picked this table for a reason. I’ve sat here many times with my husband when it seemed like we were worlds apart on the issues of the day. Suffice it to say, he and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye when we vote. But this is the table where my husband and I sit after every political election to have dinner and conversation together. For as long as I can remember we’ve done this after leaving the polling place just up the street from here.

The polling place — it’s where the roads of our marriage have diverged when our ink pens hover over tiny ovals on secret ballots.

Election after election, we walk into the polling place, cast our ballots, and walk out, side by side. In time, the awkwardness of this marital divide has softened, even when our differences haven’t. We often joke on our way back to the car, “Did our votes cancel each other out again?” Sometimes they do; sometimes they don’t.

But always we have come here, to this table.

Long ago we made the decision to break bread together in the form of a shared plate of buffalo wings. We talk. We listen. And yes, we even disagree. This has never been easy. There have been tears at this table—mine. There has been defensiveness and eye-rolling—again, mine. There have been uncomfortable conversations that we carry back through the front door into our home. But believe it or not, we have learned from each other at this table and have found common ground from time to time.

Whenever I think about this table, it gives me hope.

Maybe you’ve been feeling like no one has room at the table for you anymore because of the way you feel about politics, parenting, climate change, alcoholic beverages, policing, critical race theory, religion, science, divorce, international adoption, vaccines, or public education. The list is unending.

Chances are, you are living in the tension of being misunderstood. And maybe these days you feel rejected or abandoned. Without warning, you lost a treasured friendship that fractured over a difference of opinion. You just found out your next-door neighbor unfriended you last week.

If there’s a way forward, the path feels hidden. But ignoring our differences doesn’t actually make anything safer. It just makes us more insulated and divided. Here’s what we risk if we don’t find a way forward: we will each end up sitting at a table of one.

If we have to agree with every single person in our church on every single issue, we will be sitting in a church of one.

If we have to agree with our neighbor on every single issue, we will live in a neighborhood of one.

A book club of one. A Bible study of one. A living room of one. A family of one.

We’re all going to sit alone at Thanksgiving and Christmas and even the communion table where Jesus beckons us to “Take and eat.” A table of one.

I know how uncomfortable it is. Every election cycle, every news story, and every political event has the potential to set off fireworks in my own home — and not the pretty kind but the explosive, cover-your-ears-and-run-for-cover kind.

But my husband and I have finally come to a place where our divisions no longer shock us. In the same way, our global divisions should not shock us.

Scott and I got married knowing full well that we didn’t always agree. But we got married anyway. Here’s why: because we loved “us” more than we hated what was different.

That conviction is what keeps us coming to this table twenty-five years later. Maybe that’s a starting place for each of us today: We can love “us” more than we hate what is different.

I understand how hard this is, but silence isn’t working (and neither is shouting on Facebook). I know of friends who haven’t talked in more than a year because of divisions over recent events. These friends used to sit at the same table, vacation together, worship together. As days turn to months turn to years, that gap will continue to widen unless it’s dealt with.

Maybe we could try this instead.

Instead of unfriending that college roommate with her unending rants on social media, use the Facebook Like button to let her know you love the photo of her kid holding up his new driver’s license.

Instead of arguing with your dad over how he voted, listen as he tells you what he’s been thinking. (We can listen without agreeing and still enjoy the Thanksgiving turkey!)

This doesn’t mean that the hot-button issues aren’t important. They are. But if our divisions create an all-or-nothing mentality, then we’re all missing out. So instead of focusing on everything that divides, let’s find points of connection. We might not agree with the way our next-door neighbors parent their children, but when we get to know them, we might realize that we both share a fondness for historical fiction and sushi.

I understand that sushi won’t save the world. And I know that this vinyl booth tucked into the corner of a small-town restaurant won’t right all the wrongs.

But like the old song says, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”

And with you.

Right here, at our table of two.

This excerpt from Come Sit with Me was written by Jennifer Dukes Lee. 

With the U.S. in the throes of election season, we knew this was the perfect time to share Jennifer’s words from our (in)courage book, Come Sit with Me: How to Delight in Differences, Love through Disagreements, and Live with Discomfort.

Let us send you the rest of Jennifer’s chapter, “Table of One”, plus the introduction and another FREE chapter! Sign up here.

How to Help Your Friend Who’s Suffering (It’s Not What You Think!)

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Since surviving cancer (at least thus far!) I have the honor of receiving countless kind requests from strangers asking what they can to do support a friend who’s just received terrible news.

Whenever I hear the question, a highlight reel of gifts from friends and family flashes through my mind. Chemo caps when I lost my hair, restaurant gift cards for our family, handmade quilts, candles to light in prayer. My best friend started a GoFundMe and stocked our freezer with meals. My college friends left their own kids at home to help mine after my mastectomy. My siblings and parents flew across the country to stay with us for weeks. Our church kept a meal train going for so long that it still brings tears to my eyes.

Every time someone asks me what to get for their newly diagnosed bestie, I also remember the story of Job—and one particular line that I adore.

When Job’s friends heard of his terrible suffering — the loss of his children, servants, animals, and his own health — they leave everything behind “to console and comfort him” (Job 2:11 NRSVUE). What happens next is breathtaking: “They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great” (Job 2:13).

Job’s friends offer a powerful portrait of support in suffering. Not only were they willing to hold vigil with him for seven days and seven nights, but they said nothing.

They knew Job’s grief was so huge that silence was the only fitting response. They didn’t try to explain everything, or tell him how he should feel, or try to cheer him up, or advise him to get over it, or assure him that this was God’s plan.

They sat down. And shut up. I adore them for it.

Because while we long to leap into action when our loved one is hurting, what people need most often is our presence. We want to bring casseroles and cards. We want to cook for them, clean their house, and care for their kids. We want to buy them funny socks, thoughtful books, comfy blankets, or beautiful flowers.

But the truth is that when your life is falling apart, what matters most is to know that you aren’t alone. To have friends who will stay with you even when they don’t know what to say.

Ironically, what happens next to Job fills up the rest of his book — and frustrates him to no end. His friends end up opening their mouths and don’t stop talking. Most of the Book of Job is their long-winded speeches and Job’s exasperated rebuttals. These men are trying to make sense of the mystery of suffering and the problem of pain — but humans have yet to find airtight solutions to the deepest struggles of our existence.

By the end of the Book of Job, God shows up and speaks to Job directly: a stunning exchange that most of us have longed for in prayer. Yet even God’s words offer less of a clear answer and more of an invitation into humility when faced with majesty.

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” God asks (Job 38:4).

“Have you entered into the springs of the sea
or walked in the recesses of the deep?

Have the gates of death been revealed to you,
or have you seen the gates of deep darkness?

Have you comprehended the expanse of the earth?
Declare, if you know all this.” (Job 38:16-18)

God speaks as the Creator, reminding Job (and all of us) that we weren’t there at the dawn of time when God hung the stars, wrangled the weather, and designed each animal. But even God’s strong statements are not meant to shame Job. Instead, they affirm that God has been always present—in all of creation, in every life.

When our lives fall apart, we can trust that God who commanded the cosmos and created the cells in our bodies will never leave our side.

So as much as I’d love to give you a quick clickable list of ideas for the perfect care package for your ailing friend, I want to whisper this wisdom to you first. The same truth that I learned from my friends and Job learned from his:

What matters most is simply that we show up for each other.

Yes, the cash and gift cards made cancer treatment bearable for my spouse and five kids. Yes, dinners and groceries relieved so much stress in those awful months. Yes, everyone’s prayers were the most powerful part of my healing: mighty and mysterious in ways I will never understand this side of heaven.

But the ways people simply offered their presence became an enormous gift. Some sat on my couch or crawled next to me in bed. Some cleaned my kitchen and played with my kids. And some showed up for me just as powerfully from afar: a quick text, a prayer via email, or a beautiful photo to say I’m with you. I love you. I can’t fix this, but I will not leave you.

Job’s friends sat in the silence with him, for seven days and seven nights. Whatever way we show up for our suffering friends, even sitting in the dark, will be a gift they’ll never forget.

No Matter What Happens Next

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“I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. You will have suffering in this world. Be courageous! I have conquered the world.”
John 16:33 CSB

Take a moment and think of a challenging situation or trial. Maybe it’s an issue at work, a conflict with a close friend, or an inner struggle you have never even named. Hold it in your mind. Feel the tension it causes in your body. Let the mental and emotional weight you carry transfer to your physical body. Now add Jesus to your picture. Right in the middle of that family crisis or worrisome visit to the doctor, imagine Jesus is sitting beside you. No matter what happens next, He’s not leaving.

Take a deep breath. Inhale the gift of His presence.

This is the peace of Jesus. Not that your circumstances will instantly change or that the road ahead will be free of painful potholes and disheartening detours, but that God the Son in the person of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit whom He sent go with you.

He has existed since before the foundation of the world, and He is the foundation of our present and our future. Paul explains it like this in Colossians 1:15–20:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation.
For everything was created by him, in heaven and on earth,
the visible and the invisible,
whether thrones or dominions
or rulers or authorities—
all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things,
and by him all things hold together.
He is also the head of the body, the church;
he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have
first place in everything.
For God was pleased to have
all his fullness dwell in him,
and through him to reconcile
everything to himself,
whether things on earth or things in heaven,
by making peace
through his blood, shed on the cross.”

What does it mean that Jesus has overcome the world? It means death doesn’t have the final say. It means Jesus’s blood conquered the spiritual chaos caused by sin.

There is no peace without Jesus. Thank God we have Him.

By Becky Keife from Create in Me a Heart of Peace.

 

Burdened by Life? May Your Weights Become Wings

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Recently, after I told my mother that my hands reminded me of hers, she said:

“You have hands that have done the work.”

We rocked in my new turquoise farmhouse chairs, discovered at a local thrift store. Our hands were in the same position, holding the rockers as we looked towards my Eastern Tennessee yard, surrounded by lush foothills. Our hands had the same short nails and gentle grip. 

Looking down, I noticed our veins, like tributaries or small rivers, etching in and out of mountainsides. I noticed how my skin, almost overnight, had revealed cells like stars, stretching over the bone. Just like her. I hear my children shriek of silly from the house inside. When did I become the mother? How has time morphed so that looking at our hands side-by-side, I see myself in hers?

Like my mother, my hands have wrung themselves, held themselves, reached out for the hands of others. Outstretched, they have praised, lifting up into the air with hesitation and then abandon. They’ve been clasped together in prayer — desperately pleading, seemingly bleeding.

For years, I struggled with addiction and untreated, undiagnosed trauma symptoms. My life was centered on how I could escape pain — through drugs, men, food, screens . . . the list goes on. God felt far away — and I, far away from Him.

We’ve both been through similar traumas, my mother and I. We’ve both lived with unhealthy patterns, both unsure that we’d ever escape the fear, the stuckness, and the prison of the mind that living in years of undiagnosed trauma symptoms can create.  

Yet, today we are here — with the same hands, we build; we love; we write; we nurture. 

We have the hands of women who have done the work to heal, both having turned to God and relied on Him. We have taken what we’ve learned from this reliance and put it all into action. Today, we live to spread a message of hope to others. 

In the classic devotional, Streams in the Desert, Lettie Cowman recounts an old fable about how birds first got their wings. The story goes something like this: 

“They [the birds] were first made without wings. Then God made the wings, set them down before the wingless birds and said to them, ‘Take up these burdens and carry them.’

[ . . . ]

For a short time the load seemed heavy and difficult to bear, but soon, as they continued to carry the burden and to fold the wings over their hearts, the wings grew attached to their little bodies. They quickly discovered how to use them and were lifted by the wings high into the air. The weights had become wings.”

Our burdens can become wings. The things that threaten to keep our gaze turned to the ground will tilt our souls and our sights heavenward if we let them. Our traumas can help us to fix our eyes, not on the seen tragedies of our experience, but on the unseen hope of God. If we trust that God is God of both our weights and wings, then we’ll see He can’t help but do something amazing with the work of our hands, no matter what we’ve been through or what traumas have haunted our families.
When we look at our hands and see all we are and have come through, may we may notice that those same hands have always been held in His.

Using Our Physical and Emotional Scars to Build Empathy

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I didn’t catch the irony last month when I edited a passage in my novel about people hiding their metaphorical scars… the day before I had major surgery to reconnect the fragments of my broken right humerus (the bone of your upper arm) with a plate and screws. My incision line runs in a diagonal from the inside of my shoulder to the outside of my elbow and required 49 staples to close. Unless I’m mistaken, I’ll wear a scar I cannot conceal for the rest of my life.

After the occupational therapist removed the steri-strips and we saw the puckered line and staple marks, my children, who would have been as prepared as anyone, couldn’t look. I could hardly stand it myself. My husband (who has the strongest stomach) keeps a photographic record of my progress.

I thank God the accident and surgery are a little further in the rearview mirror when I go to bed each night. Only time will tell how this experience changes me, but I feel different already.

When fellow (in)courage contributor Kathi Lipp checked on my progress, she said, “I love when people share their scars with me.” Kathi said that scars show what people have been through, and she feels honored when people trust her with their stories. Those are the people she wants surrounding her in a crisis or when she needs to be buoyed. Her comments made me ponder what I’ve learned from this experience and how it will help me relate to other people. 

I’m more aware of what it feels like to be lonely, forgotten, and isolated (I haven’t driven since August 11th). I now know what it’s like to be in constant pain or discomfort. Frustrated by my inability to do ordinary things. Overwhelmed by my circumstances. Terrified of not healing well.

I’ve wondered if certain places or situations would trigger something like PTSD. Almost four weeks to the day after surgery, my daughter and I attended the doubleheader that ended the Braves’ regular season. We sat up high where the incline was steep, and an older man seated three rows above us fell. Somehow, he cleared two rows of seats and landed against the back of ours. His leg came to rest on my daughter. He lay on his side, right arm pinned beneath him. It terrified me. I couldn’t take my eyes off his arm, searching for evidence of whether he’d broken it. People helped him to his seat, but I was still trying to discern how badly he was hurt.

Afterward, I turned forward again and cried. It was all too familiar, too soon, too much for me. I hate feeling hijacked by my emotions, but I won’t be surprised if this happens again when I’m faced with someone else’s accident or injury. (FYI: someone called medical personnel, who checked the man out and deemed him okay.)

No one gets through life unscathed. Not all of us are visibly marked, but sometimes internal wounds can cut deeper than those we can see.

After the resurrection, Jesus chose to wear the visible scars of His crucifixion. Like a character in a sci-fi movie, He could have healed them without a trace if He chose, but He didn’t. He bore the marks of the punishment He received on our behalf.

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”
John 20:27 NIV

Did Jesus keep His scars as a sign of His empathy?

He knows what it means to be wounded. And only He can heal us.

Since my injury and surgery, I’ve had a hard time finding things to wear. I can’t lift my arm very high, which makes it hard to get into most clothes, and my shoulder has to be accessible at occupational therapy twice a week. So I have a new wardrobe of clothes that bare one or both shoulders. Will I wear them later, when I can raise my arm again and no longer need them? I think I will. It comes down to whether or not I try to hide my scars.

Jesus didn’t hide His. Indeed, these scars are part of me now.

We all bear the marks of trauma, even if they’re invisible to the eye. Let’s consider how our scars can make us more empathetic to those around us.

Taking Your Stress to God

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No one was more surprised than me when those dinner plates left my hands and went through the kitchen window. Even now, it’s hard for me to share that terrible moment openly, even though it happened many years ago. As a Jesus-loving woman, I never thought that I would lose control in such a spectacular way.

After I unfroze from the horror of seeing what I’d done, I grabbed a broom and dustpan, hoping to erase the evidence of what I’d done. I looked at the broken plates and cried. The only thing that survived my meltdown was a white Corelle mug that blessedly honored its no-break guarantee.

While that mug didn’t break, it was time to admit I finally had.

That morning, I was overwhelmed by circumstances out of my control, and the pressure of stress, fear, and anxiety swelled up within me like air inside a giant party balloon. Those emotions grew instead of me, stretching my ability to cope. All it took was one terrible fight for me to pop. I exploded like a latex balloon all over the people around me.  

Have you ever popped because of stress or overwhelm? Perhaps you screamed at the kids, slammed some doors, withdrew, or isolated yourself. These are all common responses when too much stress overwhelms our lives.

Do you think about who is impacted by your stress and how it affects them?

Is it the people that you love, like friends and family? Perhaps it’s people that you lead at work or church. It could be random people that you let into your life. Regardless of who it is, it’s unfair to them when our stress explodes.

Years ago, I experienced two crucial a-ha moments that helped me stop blaming others for my stress and protect my relationships from my stress. Ultimately, I had to learn to take my stress to God instead of taking it out on others. The first a-ha moment was learning the difference between stress and stressors:

Stress: Your body’s response to how you’re handling the world around you.

Stressors: The people, places, or things you’re reacting to.

Why is this distinction important? If we blame stress other people, we will make them responsible for our stress. Then, we will treat them like enemies by weaponizing our stress and using it against them. We may launch angry words and grenades or run people over with our tanks of controlling behaviors.

In fact, Satan would love it if you took your stress out on the people closest to you. Ultimately, Satan wants you to confuse your reaction with your relationship in hopes that you will destroy your relationship with your response.

However, God invites us to take our stress to Him instead of taking it out on others.

The first step in taking your stress to God is remembering that Jesus has already won your victory over the worries of this life.

“I have told you all this so you may have peace in me. Here on earth, you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.“ John 16:33 NLT.

Where we focus on problems, Jesus leads with peace. Our stress happens when we believe that our problems are too big to be covered by the peace and power of Jesus. We’re reminded that Jesus has overcome the world, so whatever is stressing you out today may be too much for you, but it’s not too much for God to handle for you.

The second step is specifically about not taking your stress out on others. I developed this Stress Clarity Exercise to remind me not to blame others for my stress. If you have people in your life that you associate with your stress, try this exercise:

Stress Clarity Exercise: ________ is not the cause of my stress.

Even though I feel _________ because of ____________, I will not blame my reactions on it/them.

My reaction is my responsibility.

I pray that this simple tool equips you to take your stress to God instead of taking it out on others. Note: Even though your stress reaction is your responsibility, you can do this exercise and activate protective boundaries where needed.

The blessing of taking our stress to God is an opportunity for us to let God take care of our stress and worries so that we can take better care of the people closest to us.

 

Barb’s new book and Bible study, Stronger Than Stress equips you to win the battle of stress and overwhelm with ten spiritual practices that teach you to live with less stress and more peace every day.